The Case of the Missing Brother
by LittlePippin76
Summary: Sherlock is ill, and with spectacularly bad timing, Mycroft is missing, presumed kidnapped. Can Sherlock battle through his pain and save his brother? What dangers are in store for him and John as he does so? Established JohnLock relationship, follows my story Hell Hath No Fury.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

'Sir, there's been another one.'

Mycroft Holmes looked up from the file on the table to the young agent who had just walked into his room.

He'd have liked to have mentioned something about the courtesy of knocking on the door, or of allowing his secretary to announce him, but the man before him was virtually buzzing with excitement and concern, so he let it go. He really looked frightfully young. Mycroft wasn't entirely sure where agents were being recruited from these days, but he'd seen enough recently for him to start drafting a memo to the Prime Minister suggesting that all was not quite as he would like.

'Where this time?' he asked.

'Sarajevo, sir.'

Mycroft didn't react. He just waited with his best placid, still face on until the agent felt obliged to fill in the silence. He sighed inwardly. This really wouldn't do.

'The man's name is Aguilar, sir, originally from Mexico. He was last seen yesterday morning walking from the train to his office, and then he just vanished.'

Mycroft stared a little longer. 'Thank you for bringing this to my attention,' he said finally.

'It's fine, sir. I'll have the full details sent to you as soon as we've collated them.'

'Thank you.'

The agent left, closing the door behind him. After a few minutes, Mycroft rose and went into the little antechamber off his office. His secretary looked up at him.

'Is there anything you need, Mr Holmes.'

'I wonder if I might trouble you for a cup of tea, Ms Gardiner.'

oOo

'What do you want for your birthday?'

'What?' John looked over the top of his newspaper to where Sherlock was sprawled on his back, naked as a newborn babe, on the floor.

'It's your birthday on Saturday. I ought to get you something, but I don't know what. I've tried other methods to work it out, but it seems simplest to just ask.'

John smiled at the sight of him. The day was shaping up to be another scorcher. The windows at Baker Street were flung open to their widest reach, and there was just enough of a breeze to allow the heavy curtains to sway slightly, but not enough to cool the room. It was, in fact, a hot, sticky morning following a hot, sticky night. Sherlock had spent much of the previous day complaining how hot and sticky he was, and had then woken John regularly through the night to remind him of this fact. When the refrain started up again, just after their late and leisurely breakfast, John had finally suggested he just gave in and enjoyed it. 'Sunbathe,' he suggested. 'Allow the vitamin D to work its wonders.'

He had intended a short trip to the park, and was ready to get up and go when Sherlock appeared with a large white towel. Instead, he'd ended up watching, incredulous but delighted, as the detective pushed back the armchairs, stripped his pyjamas off and lay down on the towel in the bright rectangle of sunshine that was admitted through the open window. He'd had been quiet for nearly quarter of an hour, and John had assumed he'd gone to sleep until he had spoken.

'You don't have to give me a present, Sherlock.'

'I think I do. We're… _something._ Partners, boyfriends, lovers, dating, call it what you will, then expectation is that when there's a birthday, there's a gift.'

'And you waited until three days before the event to think about this, did you?'

'I've been busy.'

'Well anyway, there's no expectation from me. Don't worry about it.'

Sherlock sighed. 'I _do _worry about it.'

'Then stop! Seriously, I think it's fair to say that our relationship exists beyond the normal bounds of relationships. You are not required or even expected to buy me a gift.'

There was silence following this, and after a few more seconds of sight-seeing, John went back to his paper.

'But I _want_ to get you a gift,' Sherlock said, managing to fill the sentence with an impressive amount of childish whine given the subject matter.

John laughed. 'OK, well if you _want_ to give me a gift, then you go right ahead.'

'So _what_ then?'

'Does your desperate desire not extend to the gift itself? What do you want to give me? I mean, I'm assuming you don't want to give me a surprise.'

'I want to give you the best gift ever given. In the whole history of mankind.'

'Good then. I'll look forward to it.'

'Why are you not helping?'

'Because it's funny not to.' He looked at Sherlock as he glistened slightly. 'Though I am beginning to get a couple of ideas.'

'Really?' Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at him. He closed them in a second though with a disappointed sigh. 'No, it can't be anything sexual. We could have sex at any time.'

'We could do something particularly interesting maybe?'

Sherlock shrugged. 'We could do something interesting at any time. If there's something you want to try specifically, trust me, I'd not make you wait even a day nor restrict it to once a year.'

John put his paper down got up to shut both the living room and the kitchen doors. He got down on his knees and shuffled on them until he was kneeling next to Sherlock.

Sherlock was waiting with an expectant and slightly smug expression on his face, but his eyes were still closed. 'You told me to sunbathe, and now you're casting a shadow.'

John didn't answer. He used his index finger to trace the line from Sherlock's throat, down over his heart and past his belly-button. As predicted, when he got to that spot, Sherlock squirmed and writhed and started giggling. John smiled but continued along his line. Finding the reaction pleasing, John traced the line again, this time using his tongue.

'No!' Sherlock said, still laughing. 'We're discussing your birthday present, remember? Or do we have a code three?'

John straddled Sherlock entirely. He, still in white tennis shorts and a baggy blue t-shirt, had the advantage, and he bent over to taste the succulent skin of Sherlock's neck. Sherlock sighed deeply, so John stroked him gently again, down the sides of his rib cage and over his kidneys, and grinned and kissed as Sherlock writhed and laughed again.

'Stop doing that!' he said through his laughter, but it was a weak protest.

He tried to move John's hands away, and John willingly allowed them to be pulled away to just above Sherlock's head. When they were there he hooked both of Sherlock's slender wrists under the span of one hand. He held them there and he stretched down again to kiss Sherlock's neck then face, then his gleaming red mouth, willing and soft. He used his free hand to stroke down Sherlock's side again, and Sherlock writhed and laughed again, and John pushed down into him.

Sherlock moaned quietly and sighed. John looked at him lazily, taking his time to decide quite what he'd do next. Sherlock was looking deliciously relaxed. He hadn't had a seizure in nearly three weeks, and even before that, he'd only had one following sex, and that might have been entirely coincidental. Even so, John preferred to go slow and steady just for now. This was not a hardship. All of these observations took several minutes in between kisses and strokes. He wasn't surprised when the young, lithe body beneath him squirmed, impatient and impetuous, and tried to push into him again. John held off and made him wait.

Sherlock opened his eyes now and looked at him.

Once, not too many weeks before, John had been asked for Sherlock's eye colour while completing an annoying and irrelevant form at Scotland Yard.

'They're gold,' he'd answered automatically.

'Really?' Sally had asked, frowning at him.

He'd blushed deeply and become quite flustered. 'Sorry, I mean they're bluey-grey. Sometimes blue, sometimes grey. Mostly blue though. You know, you should probably just put 'blue'. He'd then blushed again, and struggled hopelessly with other questions about Sherlock's skin and hair colour until Sally, annoyed, had simply suggested they complete the form another time.

'You could just complete it yourself,' he'd snapped. 'You have looked at the man.'

'Not like you,' she'd returned, and he'd blushed again.

John had spent some time since then trying to convince nobody but himself that he wasn't talking about _colour_, but about _tone_, and it was not dissimilar to the ancient Greeks having no word for blue and claiming that the sea was the same colour as wine, and it was more about the way they glistened and so forth. But damn it all if he didn't instantly think 'yep, they're gold,' when Sherlock opened his eyes and gave him that look.

He stopped tickling and went in for another kiss. Sherlock's mouth was surprisingly cool. He thought of saying so, but in the end he just helped himself. Slow and steady and relaxed.

Later they lay next to each other, pleasantly tired and spent, John only half on the towel and wedged up against the legs of his armchair.

'We were talking about your birthday present,' Sherlock said. 'You distracted me.'

'I didn't hear any complaints.'

'But now we have to return to the subject. What do you want for your birthday?'

'I don't know.'

'You have to know.'

'I honestly can't think of anything.'

'That's ridiculous. I have asked Mrs Hudson, Molly and Lestrade, both separately and together, Donovan, Anderson, and I've even texted Mike. The answers have been unsatisfactory in the extreme. Mrs Hudson told me she was sure I'd think of something nice and refused to either budge on the matter, or tell me what she was planning to buy. Lestrade suggested a CD which is the most ridiculous and impersonal thing in the world, and Molly suggested a tie-pin or cufflinks, clearly forgetting how wedded you are to your HRMC pin and your father's links. When together, both rubbished the other's suggestion, but came up with the idea that I take you out somewhere for a nice romantic meal, or perhaps to see a play that you've always wanted to see, then they simultaneously lost interest in you, and Lestrade went off to book tickets to some play or other while Molly started looking up restaurants. Anderson laughed in my face when I mentioned it and told me I really ought to know, and Sally said shoes, which is just plain silly. Mike came up with the suggestion of a book…'

He stopped as, by his side, John started gently snoring.

Sherlock glanced at him and smiled. He pulled himself up, folded the end of the towel over John's midsection, as a nod to John's sensibilities rather than his own, and he went off to shower.

oOo

John woke up half an hour later with a sense of disorientation. He slowly blinked around the room and remembered the events that had led to this moment, and he smiled to himself. The smile quickly fell away as he heard Sherlock quietly talking to someone in the kitchen, and he winced and gathered the towel more closely to himself.

He breathed out again when it became apparent that Sherlock was on the phone. He stood up and wrapped the towel around his waist and went through to Sherlock.

'As I say, I have the availability for a case at the moment if you'd like to make an appointment to discuss it further.'

There was a pause.

'I much prefer to discuss the details in my Baker Street office. It helps keep things nice and clear.'

John raised his eyebrows at the term 'Baker Street office,' but Sherlock rolled his eyes at him. He picked up his mug and waved it at John.

Now John rolled his eyes. He took the mug, but he took the opportunity to swipe Sherlock gently around the head. Sherlock retaliated by hooking a finger over the towel and pulling it free. John just about managed to keep from squealing as he scrambled to put it back.

Sherlock shook his head, a smile playing in his eyes.

'Very well, Mr Bartlet, we'll come to you. Give me the address. Yes, I have a pen,' this was accompanied by another eye-roll. 'Of course I can read it back,' Sherlock said. '61 Furneaux Avenue, West Norwood. We'll be there at before midday.' He hung up.

'He sounds like hard work,' John commented. 'Nice puzzle, is it?'

'Nice enough. Tell me, why do you insist on a towel when I've seen all parts of you from all angles?'

'You were talking on the phone.'

'It's not like we were on camera.'

'Even so. I need to shower before we go.'

'Fine. Just make my tea first, would you?'

John sighed, but he did make tea. He looked at Sherlock as it sat at the table working away on his computer. He was wearing shorts now, but hadn't bothered by a t-shirt yet, and he looked young and strong.

He was young and strong, John reminded himself. Young and strong, but blighted by the occasional seizure. It felt as though a cloud had passed over the sun with the thought, and he tried to shake it away. Sherlock was being treated by Dr Adam Fforde, an eminent neurologist, and he seemed completely capable and competent. Sherlock still sulked and growled through his appointments, but he'd put up with the EEG, and was prepared to dutifully take the anti-seizure medication that John gave to him every evening. He didn't want to discuss the diagnosis. He hadn't even been commented when John had recently mentioned that he'd been a full two weeks with no seizure at all. This was the longest time with no event since he was released from hospital nearly three months before. John had quietly mused that perhaps they'd finally hit upon an effective treatment plan, but Sherlock had refused to celebrate this at all. He glowered darkly until John had changed the subject.

John sighed quietly to himself.

'See anything you like?' Sherlock asked.

'Perhaps yes.'

He put a cup of tea on the table beside Sherlock, kissed the bare shoulder just because it was so very accessible, then kissed it again because he found it pleasant, and then started again on Sherlock's neck until he was pushed gently away.

'I'm working now.' This was accompanied by a slight smile.

John kissed the shoulder one more time and went to the shower.

When he returned to the living room, ready to go, Sherlock was fully dressed again and ready to go. John picked up the rucksack that he now carried with him whenever he was out with Sherlock, and they set off down the stairs.

'Are you out for lunch?' Mrs Hudson asked as they passed her on the stairs.

'Shouldn't be long,' Sherlock replied. 'We'll eat when we're back.'

'Have you got everything you need?' she asked John.

It was a pointless question; John never forgot anything that Sherlock might need should anything unfortunate happen while they were out. But Mrs Hudson needed to ask, so he nodded and thanked her and followed Sherlock out. Sherlock didn't comment on this last question at all. He was starting to look tense now though, and John sensed it suddenly back in his mind, and he'd be getting anxious and therefore angry about it.

'So, do you want me to outline the case to me?' he asked.

'Mm?' Sherlock glanced sourly at him.

John raised his eyebrows.

Sherlock relented. 'Mr Bartlet of West Norwood is wondering whether he's losing his mind.'

'Well, that's a nice change from the spate of lost dogs that we've had recently.'

Sherlock's mouth curled into an appreciative smile. 'It does. Taxi!' He waved a long arm and flagged one down. 'Good God, it's hot,' he said, getting in. 'It smells like they've cooked a hog-roast in here.' He glanced at John. 'Doesn't it?'

John sniffed. 'Actually, it does a bit. So what are Mr Bartlet's symptoms?'

Sherlock nodded, relieved. 'Ah yes, Mr Bartlet. Well, the first thing he lost was a gardener. He lives alone in a large house with extensive grounds, so hires a company to take care of his large garden, and they usually send an older man who's been with him for a few years. Three months ago, however, they needed to substitute a younger woman to cover a period while the old man recovered from a broken ankle. At first, Mr Bartlet was unhappy with this because he owns a number of valuable items and was worried about the security risk of a new person in his grounds. However, Ms Helen Carter turned out to be brilliant, according to him. Not only did she show no interest at all in the house and its contents, but she turned out to be an expert in dianthus plants, and together they were planning an entire new border.'

'So she showed no interest in the house at all.'

'None whatsoever.'

'It's a grand house is it?'

'Indeed.'

'But not even remotely interested in it.'

'No.'

John grinned. 'OK then, carry on. I'd love to hear all about the new border.'

Sherlock chuckled. 'I'm sure Mr Bartlet would be happy to describe it again. I'm pretty sure I could sketch a decent plan of it from what he's told me. I believe his old gardener, Mr Slark heard a great deal about it too. When he recovered from his broken ankle, he returned to work, but Mr Bartlet didn't want to give up Ms Carter. He suggested alternating the workers, and even increasing the hours he contracted to cover her time too, but Mr Slark gave his notice and moved on.'

'Thus the missing gardener.'

'No, the missing one is Ms Carter. She came to work three days ago and then mysteriously vanished.'

'Did she indeed?'

Sherlock chucked again. 'Mr Bartlet was having a long conversation with her in the garden…'

'About dianthus plants?'

'Indeed. He broke off to answer his house telephone, and when he returned to the garden, she was gone. The wheelbarrow and gardening tools were still there…'

'And a good worker would never leave tool lying around…'

Sherlock laughed. 'Indeed. But there they were, all left open to the elements. Mr Bartlet eventually had to tidy them away himself.'

'The horror!'

'Stop it! Anyhow, that's when the fun really began. When Mr Bartlet got up the following day, he found all the furniture in his drawing room had been rearranged. Stop laughing!'

'I can't help it! Oh dear.' John wiped his eyes. 'Sorry, do go on.'

'Mr Bartlet called the local police, who were distinctly disinterested, so he returned it all to its original position, and went about his business. Imagine his confusion when the same thing happened the following night, no, stop laughing! You can't possibly laugh in front of our client.'

'I won't! I promise! I just need to get all the laughter out now.'

'I'm not sure that will work. Yesterday Mr Bartlet took photographs of the furniture in situ before he went to bed, but this morning when he woke… I see you're already there.'

'Oh God, it hurts,' John laughed, rubbing his side. 'Oh lord.'

'Unfortunately, most people respond in a similar fashion to you. She he called me. You really need to stop laughing now. We're here.'

The car pulled into the side of the road outside a large house set back behind a large area of clean lawns. He got out and looked at Sherlock who was looking at the building.

'Sherlock…' he said.

'Yes?'

'I've got a code two going on.'

Sherlock paced towards him, kissed him on the lips and said; 'I love you.'

Then he went right back to looking at the interesting house.


	2. Chapter 2

It was late morning by now, and the sun was high and hot in the sky, and it beat down on the heads and backs of the three men as they stood in the garden, looking at the western border.

'You see,' Mr Bartlet said, 'it really is the perfect location for the pinks.'

'And this is the spot from which Helen Carter disappeared?' Sherlock asked for the third time. He was showing remarkable patience, possibly in deference for Mr Bartlet's advanced age. He still looked as though he were just a few seconds away from grabbing the man's shoulders and giving him a good shake though.

'It is,' Mr Bartlet finally said, and John breathed out with relief. 'You see, she wanted to show me the beech tree there and to map out its roots as they spread underground. She had a clever little test, you see. She had a little machine which told her when there is litter beneath the ground. Litter, by which I mean rocks or tree roots and the like…'

'Fascinating,' Sherlock said, staring at the side of the house. 'Can I see your drawing room now please?'

'Are you quite sure you're finished with the garden?'

'Quite sure.'

'Because I'm happy to show you the spread of the roots. If you're thinking about the argument between Carter and Slark, I can show you that she was quite right.'

'Their argument is irrelevant,' Sherlock said. 'There's nothing to see here. The ground's too dry and you left it far too long in calling for me.'

'But the police…'

'If I might see inside, Mr Bartlet.'

Mr Bartlet sighed and led them inside. Sherlock walked quietly from room to room.

'The drawing room in question is to your left,' Mr Bartlet said.

John glanced in, but Sherlock ignored it. He went instead into each of the rooms that looked out onto the garden with the beech tree and the western border. He paced across each one quietly, holding a finger up for silence when John tried to speak. Eventually he had finished.

'May I see your cellars, please?'

'My cellars?'

'Yes.'

Mr Bartlet frowned slightly. 'But I don't go down to the cellars.'

'No. I, however, want to.'

Mr Bartlet looked at Sherlock as though he'd started to reassess who was actually losing his mind. 'They're through the kitchen,' he said eventually.

He led them into a large kitchen, through a larder at the other side, and opened a small door. Sherlock had to stoop to get inside, and he turned his torch on to show a steep, stone staircase leading down.

'You may stay here if the closeness bothers you,' he said to Mr Bartlet. 'Come along, John.'

John took out his torch too and stooped as he followed Sherlock.

The first staircase was narrow and steep, and it put John in mind of an old tin-mine he'd toured with his school. There were narrow cracks between various passages, and on the dare of a giggling friend, he'd tried to sneak through one of them and got stuck. At first he'd panicked that he'd be found and would be issued detention, and then he'd panicked that he'd never be found at all. His schoolfellows abandoned him at his first difficulty, and he'd come close to bellowing hysterically for help when he finally jerked himself free, ripping both his trouser leg and his left knee in the process. It had taken him several days to forgive his friends. He thought of it now as he descended the stone stairway, and the hairs rose on the back of his neck.

'Are you all right?' Sherlock asked.

'Fine.'

'You're breathing rapidly.'

'Sorry, I'll stop.'

'No, fast breathing is preferable to no breathing. Now, let us see.'

The passage opened into a wide space now, and they shone their torches around. It was the standard cellar fare; old wine racks and several barrels and tea-chests and various pieces of old furniture. There was one area that had been cleared and there were beds and shelves there, ancient and dusty. It looked as though it had been used as a bomb shelter during the war. There didn't seem to be anything more modern than that though. John shone his torch and found an old, threadbare teddy bear and some old books of nursery rhymes, spotted with damp and grey with age.

'I would guess this is why Mr Bartlet doesn't like the cellar,' Sherlock said quietly.

'Yes.' John looked around again. 'Wait a second, how on earth did they get all this stuff down here through that little staircase?'

'Very good,' Sherlock murmured. 'The second pertinent question is; why doesn't the cellar stretch the whole length of the house?'

'What?' John looked to the middle and shone his torch beam to either wall. 'Now you mention it, it is a bit small.'

'It's twenty feet too small length wise. And, as you rightly point out, there must have been better access at some time, even if Mr Bartlet doesn't remember it.' He walked to the wall that shouldn't be there, and shone his torch along it. When he got to the far corner he smiled.

'Come and look,' he called.

John joined him and laughed aloud when he saw. Part of the wall in the corner wasn't a wall at all. It was, in fact, a curtain, with the printed pattern of brickwork on it. Goosebumps covered his whole body as Sherlock pulled it down.

Sherlock shone his torch into the new area and glanced at John.

'Go back through the house, quickly.' He vanished into the darkness.

John pelted across the cellar and up through the stone stairs, forgetting to be nervous of the passage way, and he was half way through the house before it occurred to him that this was the furthest he'd been from Sherlock for a good number of weeks. He didn't have time to fret about the possibility of a villain with a potential weapon, or even about the state of Sherlock's brain. His heart leapt when he charged out of the French doors in the drawing room to find a middle aged woman tearing across the garden with Sherlock rapidly shortening the gap after her.

She tried to swerve from John, but it gave Sherlock enough time to grab her. She fell, and Sherlock would have fallen too if it weren't for John's steady hand on him.

'Miss Carter!' Mr Bartlet came towards. 'Miss Carter, we hadn't finished discussing the final third!'

'Oh his fucking border,' Helen Carter muttered.

John roared with laughter.

'One question, Miss Carter, if I may,' Sherlock said. 'Why move the furniture?'

'Why not?' she shrugged. 'He's such a bloody daft old coot. I was so sick of him and his bloody boarder and him sittin' on all this wealth and not sharin' it ou'. I weren't sure what to take, and while I was wonderin', I thought it best if I take a bit at a time. Then I thought, if I make it seem like he's loosin' his marbles, I might be able to go for longer withou' anyone knowin'.'

'Marvellous,' Sherlock said. 'Well done.'

'Yeah. Great,' she muttered. 'I s'pose it's back inside for me then. They all said I wouldn't last.'

Sherlock looked lazily at John.

'Yes,' John said firmly. 'We absolutely have to take you to the police station, on account of a crime being committed.'

'Suit yourself,' Sherlock said. 'I still think it was nicely done.'

'Come on. It's walking distance,' John said.

They dropped Helen Carter off at West Norwood police station and Sherlock started looking for a cab while John looked longingly at a Caribbean café.

'We could eat out,' he commented.

'We could eat in,' Sherlock replied.

'Yesterday you said it was too hot and wouldn't touch a thing.'

'I ate.'

'You picked. You have to eat. Actually eat food with a decent nutritional value and of a reasonable quantity. Three ice lollies don't count as lunch.'

'You fuss too much.'

'You don't fuss enough,' he muttered.

He didn't voice his concern that Sherlock had engaged in sex this morning, and was now out working, had just been running, was standing around in the heat wearing a dark suit, and had been quite stressed in the police station with how long everything was taking and how stupid everyone seemed, and any one of these factors could, possibly, spark a seizure. He didn't share this concern because Sherlock would counter this with the indisputable argument that all of Sherlock's seizures had been pretty much random. While it was true he'd been struck by some in the situations John didn't describe, it was also true that he'd been in similar situations with no problems. He also didn't share his concern because Sherlock knew precisely what he was worried about, so there was no point.

Sherlock's phone rang, and Sherlock broke off their silent argument to answer it.

'Lestrade! We were just hoping to hear from you!'

John muttered a curse and stalked away, appreciating the fact that Lestrade respected Sherlock enough to talk to him directly, and simultaneously hating him for it. He kicked a stone around the gutter vaguely listening to Sherlock take details of the case. They were apparently going to Whitehall to view a body. He kicked the stone too hard and it disappeared down a drain.

Sherlock hung up and looked at him.

'There's been a body found in Whitehall.'

'And the police can't handle this themselves because…?'

'They don't know who he is.'

'They don't know who a lot of people are.'

Sherlock walked right up to him and put his hands together as if in supplication.

'He hasn't called me in nearly a month. He's not bothering me with trivia any more, so please can I go? This one really must be important!'

John kicked at the curb.

'I really am feeling fine,' Sherlock said.

'Really? Because you're looking hot. I wish you'd take your jacket off at least.'

'No, it'd get crumpled if you put it in the bag, and I don't want to carry it. But I am fine! I'll even eat! Why don't we buy a sandwich and eat it in the car? See? Compromise!'

Sherlock looked desperately at him. John sighed. He had the sudden and slightly startling realisation that Sherlock didn't need to ask his permission at all. He didn't even need to tell him where he was going. If he wanted to, he could just go, but he was asking John anyway. Not only that, but if John refused, Sherlock would follow him home. He'd probably sulk about it for three or four days, but he wouldn't go if John said not to.

John sighed. 'Fine, let's get sandwiches to eat in the cab then.'


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock ate half a sandwich and an apple, but he at least drained a can of coke which soothed John slightly. Other than that, he twitched and shuffled in the cab in eager anticipation. John sat silently beside him.

'Besides, I don't think this morning even counted as a case,' Sherlock said at one point, in reply to a point that nobody had made. 'I know you say no more than one a week, but this morning was no work at all. It was nothing. This could still be seen as my first case this week.'

John didn't reply.

Sherlock's phone beeped, and he automatically handed it to John. This was another reassertion; now he was on a case and had no time or energy for texts or phone calls. This morning he would have answered it himself.

John looked. It was from Mycroft, and simply read '_4729_'. He frowned and gave the phone back to Sherlock who didn't ask any of the details at all.

They pulled up in a street in Whitehall. It didn't contain any of the major government or royal buildings, though its architecture was regal and impressive. Sherlock leapt out some distance away from where they could see police cars and a forensic tent.

Sherlock looked along at them, all bright and white in the sunshine, and he turned to John. 'If I ask you to remind me to replace my sunglasses, will you simply take that to mean it's a sunny day, and nothing more than that?'

'No, I'll fret that your eyes are going peculiar.'

'Oh. I'm fine then.'

He turned away, but John grabbed his arm.

'I'm sorry for being an old woman about this,' he said. 'I am honestly trying hard not to be.'

'No,' Sherlock replied. He looked along the street for a while before turning back. 'One of us has to give a damn, and I don't want it to be me.'

'OK,' John said, feeling a slight weight lift from him. 'Let's go then.'

He didn't take Sherlock's hand as they walked along the road. He knew that Sherlock would want to be unrestricted as he checked the gutters for litter and the angles of the street lights and the views from the windows as he slowly built up a picture of the whole street at the time the man was killed. He knew that the detective would be a good step towards explaining everything before they even reached the body if he just left him quietly unrestricted.

They reached the tent, and John nodded a greeting to Lestrade. He looked edgy and nervous.

'You OK?' John asked. He kept one eye on Sherlock who had ducked inside the tent and was busy leaning over the body of a tall young man wearing a very expensive suit.

'Me, yes, of course. How's… you?'

John smiled. 'He's fine. He's actually been fine for a few weeks now, so don't worry about calling.

Lestrade breathed out. 'Good. Well that's good. And how are you?'

'I'm fine too.'

'I feel like I haven't seen you in ages. We should go out maybe this weekend. Oh, wait, I've got birthday drinks for someone on Saturday. Could go on after though.'

'You've got birthday drinks with me, Greg.'

'Oh. Sorry. Well, I'll definitely see you then.'

'Are you OK?'

'Me? Yes I'm fine. Fine.'

John looked towards the body. 'Why you said unknown man, he's not quite what I was expecting.'

Lestrade looked and nodded. 'That's what we thought. We get John Does all the time, but they're usually of a type and this chap doesn't match. He's not been shot or physically attacked, but there's no ID that we can find, and we've no idea yet how he came to be dead.'

'Well I imagine Molly will help you out with that in a bit.'

'Yeah. Well, not Molly. She's off sick today.'

'Oh no!'

'Oh she's fine. Well, obviously she's sick or she'd be at work; she's got a good work ethic. But I don't think it's…'

'So she's not ill, but she's not at work.'

'I mean, it's just a precaution. Yeah, that's it. She wasn't well this morning and we thought she should rest up…'

He broke off as the wide grin stretched across John's face.

'No!' Lestrade said. 'Now wait, I didn't tell you anything!'

'Nothing at all.'

'And we're not even completely sure…'

'I'll bet she is.'

'Please don't say anything, mate,' Lestrade begged. 'It's not news we want to let out yet…'

'John!' Sherlock called.

John punched Lestrade very lightly on the arm and went through to where Sherlock was crouched over the body. Sherlock looked up at him. Well, more precisely he looked to a point on John's shoulder.

'You OK?' John asked, already fearing the answer.

'I don't know. What does the corpse smell of to you?'

John dropped down and sniffed.

'Er, bit of BO, but nothing more than that.'

'Not vinegar then?'

'No, not vinegar.'

Sherlock looked furious for a second. It was fleeting though before he looked resigned.

'I think we've got a code 1.'

John was expecting this, and he was already approaching Sherlock, ready to help him up.

'Can you walk?' he asked.

'I think so.'

'OK.'

'God, the noise!' Sherlock muttered.

John steered him out of the tent and past a puzzled Lestrade. He'd already noted a slightly more private space around the corner two houses down, and he prayed that Sherlock would be able to get all the way there. Sherlock held his hand to his head, shading himself from the burn of the sun. They got there, and John pushed Sherlock into the shadow cast by the house.

'OK, lie down,' he said.

'Don't want to lie on the floor,' Sherlock muttered.

'Well at least sit then.'

He pushed Sherlock down, and Sherlock sat with his knees bent and his back propped up against the wall. He closed his eyes and breathed slowly. After a few seconds of this, he seemed to think better of it, and he lay down with a hand over his eyes. John pulled a pullover out of his rucksack to ball up under his head. Sherlock kept his eyes closed and groped for John's hand.

They had, on one, wonderful, victorious occasion, managed to avoid a seizure by having Sherlock lie quietly in the dark on the bed. Eventually the ringing had turned quiet and the lights had started behaving normally, and John sitting quietly by Sherlock's side had uttered soothing things until it was over. There had been a seizure sixteen hours later though, and that one had been so sudden and violet that Sherlock claimed that the first one had just gone into hiding somewhere, and had just built up to epic proportions. John, however, remained quietly hopeful that they might be able to do it again someday, given enough practice.

'OK there?' he asked.

'Mm. Though here comes the nausea.' Sherlock opened his eyes and looked helplessly at John.

'Don't worry; I've got a bag. Do you want water?'

There was no answer.

Sherlock's eyes were open and completely still, like the rest of him. His hand stayed firmly in John's though. John found himself at first pleased that the seizure didn't seem that severe, and then disappointed that it was happening at all. Then the convulsions started. He gave in and swore loudly.

He was aware that Greg was standing just on the corner preventing anyone coming around it, and he started calmly counting. When he reached thirty the panic started to build, but at fifty-four the convulsions stopped and Sherlock lay still again. A few minutes later he started to blink and look around. He tried to get up, but John held him gently down.

'Don't go anywhere yet,' he said.

Sherlock's eyes were confused and uncomprehending.

'Just stay where you are, Sherlock,' John said.

Sherlock frowned at him, but lay still for a few seconds. His eyes opened again, and he tried to get up.

'No, stay where you are,' John said. 'Are you back with us yet?'

Sherlock didn't answer.

'Can you tell me your name?' John asked. 'My name? Anything?'

It wasn't clear whether Sherlock even understood the question. He tried to move again, and this time pushed John roughly aside so that he could crawl to a spot a few meters away in the alleyway between the two houses. He stopped there and sat back on his heels and swayed.

'Sherlock? Can you stay still please?' John asked, holding onto his shoulder. 'Please will you just lie down?'

Sherlock got back onto all fours, stiffened and threw up. There was a moment of calm, and then he threw up again. He coughed and spat.

'John?' he said huskily.

'I'm right here,' John replied, keeping a firm hold of Sherlock.

'I'm nauseous.'

'Yeah, I know. It's OK.'

'What's happening? My head…'

'Just another seizure. Sit back now.'

'John?'

'Yeah, I'm here. Can you please sit back?' Sherlock's arms were quivering slightly, and John held onto him, keeping him from falling.

'I think I'm going to be sick.'

'You're fine. You're going to be fine.' He rubbed Sherlock's back as Sherlock was sick yet again. There was no hope at all of getting close to the bag or the water, and he didn't want to call for Lestrade just yet.

'John?' Sherlock said.

'I'm here. No, stay down.'

Sherlock shook him off and stood up shakily and paced slightly to stay steady.

'John?' Sherlock said, frowning at him as if he'd just noticed he was there.

John held Sherlock's arms. 'For the love of God, Sherlock would you just stay down?'

'I think I'm sick.'

'Just come over here and sit down.'

'I'm wet. I've urinated.'

'I know, it doesn't matter. Come and sit down.'

'John?'

'I'm here, come over here with me Sherlock.'

Sherlock finally allowed John to take him back to the wall and sat down. There he frowned quietly to himself.

'Why don't you lie down for a bit?' John suggested. 'Put your head here on the jumper and close your eyes for a bit. Take off your jacket too; you're blazing.'

Sherlock didn't remove his jacket, but he at least stretched out on the floor again and closed his eyes.

'Is there anything you need?' Lestrade said.

John got the impression that he'd seen the bulk of this, but was choosing not to interfere.

'We're good, thanks,' he replied. 'Just give us a few minutes.'

'Fair enough. Just yell, yes? I'll drive you back home.'

'Thanks.'

He sat down and tried to make himself comfortable for the duration. It took about twenty minutes for Sherlock to grope for John's hand again, and he opened his eyes.

'Did you say something about water?'

'Yeah, in the bag. Hang on.'

He searched through the bag while Sherlock pulled himself to upright.

'Oh, my head…' he muttered before going quiet.

John watched as the look of horrified realisation spread across Sherlock's face.

'John…'

'It's fine, it doesn't matter.' He handed him the water.

Sherlock shook his head and blushed darkly.

'It really doesn't matter,' John said, rubbing Sherlock's arm. 'It's just one of those things. Nobody cares.'

Sherlock shook his head again, and he wept. John shuffled closer to him to shield him from any curious glances that might come his way.

'Seriously, don't get upset about it,' he said.

'But it's never happened before,' Sherlock whispered frantically.

It bothered John slightly that Sherlock didn't remember other occasions, even though he'd deliberately covered it up. The deception suddenly felt wrong, and it felt equally wrong that the detective hadn't gathered his wits sufficiently to notice the remaining small signs.

'Just don't panic,' he said. 'Don't get alarmed. Let's just wait until your head's steadier and then we can go home.'

'How am I supposed to get home?'

'In Greg's car. He's already said.'

'I _can't_.'

'You _can._ Drink some water.'

Sherlock shook his head again, but he did obediently drink some water. He grimaced and put it aside.

'Funny taste?' John asked.

Sherlock nodded, and he wiped his eyes.

'Oh God, I'm nauseous. Did you say you had a bag?'

John chose not to point out that it was a little after the event at this point. He just handed Sherlock the bag.

'This isn't supposed to be happening any more,' Sherlock said.

'It might mean we have to adjust your dose, that's all. I'll talk to Adam. In general, up until now, things have been better. Let's not forget that.'

'This one was worse though. It's worse than before.'

John didn't answer.

'I don't feel at all well,' Sherlock said. 'My head is pounding. Did I knock it? Can Lestrade take us home now? Will he mind?'

'Not at all.'

'The car seats though.'

'Sit on the jumper. It'll be fine. Wait here in fact, and I'll ask him to bring the car around.'

Lestrade had apparently heard. He nodded grimly before John even needed to ask, so he returned to Sherlock. He sat down again and pulled him into a hug. Cradling Sherlock's head.

'You know, I wouldn't mind if some of the alleged euphoria would just turn up,' Sherlock muttered.

John smiled in response. He got the impression that Sherlock was working quite hard to sound cheerful, and he was grateful for it. They stayed like that for the ten minutes it took for Lestrade to pull the car to the side of the road.

'Wait here,' John murmured, and he kissed Sherlock on his temple. 'Don't try to move until I come back.'

Lestrade was getting out of the car but John waved him back in. He opened the rear door and spread the jumper on the seat.

'It really doesn't matter, mate,' Lestrade said.

'I know, you know, he doesn't.'

'Do you need help with him?'

'No, wait here.'

He returned to Sherlock and helped him up. Sherlock was still relatively unsteady and shaking, which caused John to fret. He guided him quickly and carefully to the car, keeping his body between Sherlock and the majority of curious onlookers. He was fairly certain he saw at least one camera, and he cursed them and made a note to ask Lestrade to find out who that was. He pushed Sherlock gently into the car and ran around the other side to get in.

Sherlock stayed still and looked miserable as they drove away.

There was a lot of silence in the car on the journey. John somehow resisted asking Sherlock if he was OK every ten minutes or so, Lestrade managed to just drive quietly and carefully without commenting about seatbelts or how fine everything was, and Sherlock just sat miserably, clutching his bag. John stroked his arm.

'I'm filthy,' Sherlock commented at one point. Neither of the others felt the need to contribute to that at all.

Later, he mumbled; 'code two.'

'I know,' John replied. 'Don't worry about it.'

'What's that?' Lestrade asked, but he was ignored.

They reached the house, and Sherlock was steady enough to get out of the car and into the house under his own steam. He flagged at the top of the stairs though, and shrugged off is jacket, letting it fall to the floor.

'The ringing's still there,' he told John. 'The lights are going crazy too. If I hadn't just had a fit, I'd assume there was one coming.'

John nodded at him. 'What do you want to do first? Bath or shower or sleep?'

Sherlock grimaced and walked past him, and John followed him to the bathroom.

'The nausea's horrendous this time,' Sherlock said. He crouched by the toilet. 'Why is this time so much worse?'

'I don't know. Maybe you've got a bug or a touch of sunstroke or something. I'll run you a bath.'

'Will you call Adam later?'

'Of course I will. I was going…' he broke off as a tall man in a dark suit pushed into the bathroom. 'Who the hell are you?'

The man ignored him and focussed on Sherlock. 'Mr Holmes, sir, you need to come with us. Operation Altaire is in place.'


	4. Chapter 4

'Like hell he does!' John shouted. 'Get the fuck out!' He pushed towards the man.

'Mr Holmes…' he said again.

Somewhere behind John, Sherlock threw up.

A second man opened the door from Sherlock's room, and John struggled to keep them both away. Sherlock vomited again, and John wanted to go to him, but suddenly there were rough hands on him, trying to pull him away.

'Get the hell off me!' he shouted and kicked. He managed to turn around so at least he could see Sherlock.

Sherlock turned around, tired and wet-mouthed.

'It's OK, John,' he said. 'I have to go.'

'No!'

'I have to.' He took a shuddering breath, but his voice was calm and controlled. 'Gentlemen, you have been made aware of the Doctor Watson situation. Wait in the living room for us. We'll be there shortly.' He turned back to the toilet and spat.

John was released, and the doors were quietly shut.

'Sherlock, what the hell is this?' he hissed, crouching with Sherlock.

Sherlock smiled grimly. 'Quite apart from spectacularly bad timing, do you mean?'

'Sherlock?'

Sherlock pushed himself back from the toilet and rested against the bathroom wall.

'Mycroft's been kidnapped.'

John stared. He stared for a long time.

'What the actual fuck?' he said eventually.

'Operation Altaire. If something happens to Mycroft, they come for me.'

'What?'

'If he's missing… well, they can't risk losing both of us.'

John stared. 'You mean they don't just want you to find him?'

'No.'

'Shit, no, Sherlock! No, absolutely not! You are not anybody's back up plan, do you hear me! No! Just no!'

Sherlock smiled that grim smile again. 'Of course, I will try to find him too, but in the first instance I'll just go with them. It's been agreed.'

'Not with me!'

'Technically you don't have to come, but I would prefer it.'

'Of course I'm going to come. You're not going bloody anywhere without me, for Christ's sake!'

'Would you mind turning off the light?'

John looked up. 'Yes, of course.'

'And ideally stop shouting at me.'

'Sorry.' John hurried to turn off the light. 'Listen,' he said quietly, crouching with Sherlock again. 'You're not in any fit state to go anywhere at all just now. I want you here, ideally in bed, for at least the next few hours. I want to use that time to talk to Adam and see what he says about all of this, oh, and by the way, I think you're having a migraine right now. Until we've got that situation sorted, I don't give a rat's arse about Mycroft or the government or even bloody queen and country. Until that's sorted, you're not going anywhere but to bed. These people, whoever they are, can bloody well wait!'

John was then distracted by the mess in the toilet, so he flushed the chain.

When he turned back to Sherlock, there was look of pure adoration in the detective's eyes. He hesitated.

'Though obviously I'm sorry that your brother's been kidnapped. What do you want to do about that?'

'Oh, don't worry about that.'

'Really? I mean, I know we've had our differences, but he is your brother.'

'No, I mean, wherever he is, I doubt very much he'd still be there if he didn't want to be.' He registered the look on John's face. 'I don't mean he's swanned off on holiday. I mean whoever's taken him, wherever they've taken him to, well, Mycroft will have some sort of plan.'

'Don't these people know?'

'Probably not. I'm not even that sure about it myself.' He moaned quietly. 'Oh, I don't know. Damn it all I can barely think. Hang on…' Sherlock shuffled forward to vomit again. 'Shit,' he mumbled, 'if this is a migraine, then frankly you can keep it.'

John stroked Sherlock's head a bit and felt generally useless.

'I'll get you some water.'

'John…' John returned. 'I'll go with them. They have a safe house somewhere, and I can recover there as easily as here, and whatever Mycroft is doing, he'll be counting on me being there.'

John shook his head. 'I don't want to move you.'

'I don't want to be moved, but I have to go. If I'm wrong, if Mycroft's in real trouble…'

'Can't we find another way? We can coordinate with the safe house or something…'

'I don't think it works that way… shit.' Sherlock gagged again. 'I have to go. I can't make sense of it right now, but I think I have to go.'

'Water,' John said.

He found a suited man standing in the hallway, just opposite the bathroom door, and the original in the kitchen, standing straight with his arms folded across his chest. John ignored both and filled a glass from the tap, sifted through the kitchen first aid box for some liquid filled ibuprofen pills and took it all back to Sherlock.

'It might taste funny,' he said, 'but it's fine. It's all in your head.'

Sherlock nodded, but he grimaced as he was drinking anyway.

'Can you swallow these?' John gave him the pills. 'It's only short term. I'll get something better as soon as I've talked to Adam.'

Sherlock swallowed them down and grimaced again. 'Will you come?'

'If you're going, then I certainly am.'

'Can you help me? Explain to them or something. Also, find out who's upsetting Mrs Hudson, disarm them, and shoot them between the eyes.'

John looked up, and sure enough, he could hear Mrs Hudson's voice getting louder and angrier. He leapt up and strode through to the hallway. He had to push past an agent to get out there, and he did indeed look longingly at his gun as he did so.

'Mrs Hudson, I'm sorry, I should have come to find you, but Sherlock…'

'What's wrong with Sherlock?' she asked instantly.

'At the moment I think he has a migraine. He had a seizure about two hours ago, and in-between now and then, Mycroft's gone missing, and these men have turned up apparently to protect Sherlock, but mostly they're getting in the way and being annoying.'

'Mycroft?'

She looked genuinely upset at the news, and John was surprised. He had thought she didn't much like Mycroft, but it occurred to him now that she'd at least responded to him with familiarity which was as close as he'd seen anyone come to actually liking the man.

'Come on in,' he said. 'It's a shock. I'll make you a cup of tea.'

He put his hand on her shoulder, but the agent in the kitchen doorway stood straighter.

'There's no exception for Mrs Hudson,' he said.

'Make one,' John snarled. He pulled her past him into the flat.

John stood in the kitchen and looked around. As well as the agents in the doorways, there were two more looking out of the living room windows. The original one was standing in the kitchen divide, looking at John as if he'd very much like to resolve the 'Doctor Watson Situation' permanently. John addressed him, but raised his voice slightly so everyone could hear.

'Mr Holmes… Mr _Sherlock_ Holmes will be ready to leave in twenty minutes. I'll be coming with him, as will Mrs Hudson. Someone will accompany Mrs Hudson to her flat while she gets ready, and they _will_ be civil to her throughout. I'll take care of Mr Holmes myself. We'll need a car outside in precisely twenty minutes. Sherlock will not be made to wait on the doorstep, and the car he travels in will need darkened windows. Right; all of you hop to it.'

The first Agent nodded slightly and people started to move.

John kissed Mrs Hudson on the cheek. 'We'll need to make this work somehow,' he murmured in her ear.

She was already looking steadier and more confident.

'I'll make sure we have plenty of tea and coffee,' she replied. She went steadily downstairs.

First Agent was still looking at John with his arms folded across his chest. With a monumental effort, John was able to ignore him entirely while he strode through to the living room to call Adam. His mobile number went straight to voicemail, and John had to settle for calling the hospital and leaving a message with a secretary, who assured him his call would be returned as soon as Doctor Fforde was out of his session.

John was reluctantly pocketing the phone when First Agent interrupted him.

'You'll need to leave your mobile phone here, sir.'

'No I won't.'

'We'll provide another with a separate number.'

'I'm waiting for a call. It's important.'

'You need to leave your phone here. Mr Holmes will too.'

John gritted his teeth and stalked back to the living room. He pulled a paper from a notebook and scribbled Adam's numbers onto it and stuffed it into his pocket. He gave his phone to First Agent with a curt nod and went back into the bathroom.

Sherlock was still sitting in the dark, in the corner by the toilet. It took John's eyes a few seconds to readjust to the gloom, but when they did, he was pleased to see Sherlock smiling at him. It was a weak smile, but it was a smile nonetheless.

'I love you,' he said.

'Right, good,' John replied. 'Do you think you could stand a shower?'

'Better than a bath.'

'Do you mind if I watch?'

'Not even a little bit.'

'I meant in case you pass out.'

'Either way.'

John smiled and helped Sherlock to his feet. He was still slightly shaky, but he wasn't confused, and he seemed to have a grim determination to keep going. John lingered to make sure this didn't result in over-exertion, but Sherlock seemed happy to move very slowly. John was satisfied and he ducked through to the bedroom to find some clean clothes. He ignored the two agents who were standing at the windows, looking out.

When John got back to the bathroom, Sherlock had turned off the water, and was busy being sick again.

'How is there even anything left inside you?' John muttered. He found a towel to drape over the dripping detective.

'I think it was the pills,' Sherlock replied, spluttering. 'If it's all the same to you, I'm not going to risk drinking anything else until we get there.'

'I don't think it is all the same to me. How far is this place likely to be?'

'I doubt it'll be outside London. Mycroft's a person of habit remember.'

'Are you really sure you have to go? I mean, you're not well, and from what you've said, Mycroft might not even be in any danger.'

'But he might be, and whether he is or not, he thinks I'll be there. God this hurts…' he sat back and closed his eyes. 'Mycroft would do this for me. He's an absolute arse, but he'd do this for me, and I'd prefer…. Certainly I'd prefer he wasn't tortured.' He gave a lopsided smile. 'I wouldn't hear the end of it for years.'

'OK then, get dressed. I'll go and pack.'

He kissed Sherlock's wet hair and went back through to the bedroom. He pulled the medium case out of the wardrobe and started gathering enough supplies to keep the pair of them going for a few days. Sherlock managed dressing quite ably, which pleased John. He appeared in the doorway, where he hissed quietly, and his hand went to his head.

'Close the curtains,' John said. He pushed past one of the men to do so, but his wrist was caught and held.

'We can't do that, sir.'

'You bloody can!'

'Sir…'

'John, it might be prudent if I wait in the bathroom anyway,' Sherlock said. He faded like a ghost, back into the darkness.

John wrenched his arm away and returned to the case. Things were thrown into it with a fair amount of anger now. He fastened it shut and put it down in the hallway where he was reasonably certain it would have to be moved to somewhere sensible before a person could get past it. He quickly checked his phone which had been placed on the kitchen table, but there was no return call yet. He fretted and worried, but he knew there was nothing he could do about it.

Mrs Hudson appeared in the doorway. Despite the heat, she was wearing a sensible coat, and she nodded at him.

'I'm ready, John.'

'OK, good.'

'The car's waiting downstairs,' an agent told him.

This one appeared to be fixed to Mrs Hudson now, and John found he was quite satisfied by the calm respect he seemed to be radiating. He was also pleased that he'd been addressed directly, rather than waiting for First Agent to act as a conduit.

'Thank you,' he said. 'And you are?'

'Agent Briggs, sir.'

'Do you not have a first name?'

'Matthew, sir.'

'Thank you, Matthew. You stay with her, and I'll go and get him then.'

He went back through to Sherlock. 'Are you good to go?'

'No. I'm ready though. I have to admit I'm not sure how I'm going to withstand a trip in a car with blacked out windows in this heat.'

'Well like you say, hopefully it's not far. I'll get you a bowl, and what happens happens.'

'That is not nearly as encouraging as you seem to think it is.'

'Well, the options are stay here, or go now. Your choice.'

'OK. Help me up.' John took Sherlock's arm and he helped him get to his feet. Sherlock swayed slightly when he got there, but he settled and smiled wanly.

'I'm tremendously nauseous. I don't recall ever having felt so sick.'

'I know, it's awful.' John gave him a quick, gentle hug. 'OK. Come on.'

They went slowly into the kitchen, where John pounced on his sunglasses and handed them to Sherlock.

'Oh, apparently you need to leave your phone,' John said.

'It's in my jacket. Can you pass me that bowl?'

John pulled it out of the first aid cupboard and left it with Sherlock. He then darted to the living room and removed Sherlock's phone from his coat. He handed it to First Agent, put Sherlock's wallet into his own pocket, and dropped the jacket back on the armchair. Finally, he went back to Sherlock.

'OK there?'

Sherlock nodded briefly, but his face looked pale against the dark of the sunglasses. John got the impression it was taking a monumental effort for him to stay upright.

'Come on then,' he said quietly, and he led the way downstairs.

He was impressed, when he got onto the street. There was a commotion coming from each end of Baker Street where there were roadblocks in place. There were five, unmarked cars in the street, two of which where people carriers with dark windows.

'We'll travel together,' John said firmly.

'Of course,' First Agent said. He opened the door to the closest car and gestured for Sherlock to get in.

John settled him in there as best he could, and ran around the car to get in beside him. He waved Mrs Hudson to the front, but he heard someone tell her that that seat was taken. He scooted in the back and left Mrs Hudson to negotiate for herself, but he wasn't surprised when she simply got in beside him. He felt a rush of relief that they were at least all together. Things felt more manageable when they were together.

Sherlock sat back in his chair and closed his eyes. The widows on the car were certainly darkened, but they seemed prevent people seeing in rather than provide any descent level of shade. There was separate climate control in the back, however, and John quickly turned it down to its lowest setting.

First Agent got into the passenger seat, and the driver smoothly pulled away.

Sherlock started humming to himself in a long, low tone, and John took his hand and squeezed it. The squeeze was gently returned.

'We're not exactly inconspicuous, are we,' Mrs Hudson said.

There were police bikes in front of them, blue lights flashing, guiding the entourage into the busy London traffic.

'I suspect these guys will all tail off eventually,' John said.

'We should be grateful their sirens aren't on,' Sherlock added.

Sure enough, as they twisted and turned through the London streets, various cars tailed away and other added the procession. John was able to follow their route at first, but then found they'd tailed back and emerged somewhere entirely unexpected. Eventually he stopped trying. He noticed that at some point they'd joined the M40, and were hurrying away from London, and he glanced at Sherlock. Sherlock was very still.

'Marco,' he said.

'Polo,' was mumbled in response. 'I really want to get out now.'

'Mm.'

They pulled into an industrial estate just outside of Heathrow, and the car drove into a large warehouse.

'Mycroft would approve,' John commented.

Sherlock squeezed his hand.

The car came to a stop and the agents leapt out to open the rear doors. John waited impatiently for Mrs Hudson to get out so that he could dart around the car and help Sherlock. The warehouse was lit by garish strip lighting and he cursed it.

'We're just changing cars here,' they were told.

John looked at the array of new cars there, each a different make and colour.

'The blue Peugeot,' they were told, and they crossed the concrete floor and piled in. John was pleased to note that their cases were being carried for them. The doors were shut and they set off again, waiting their turn to exit among all the decoys, and they started back down the M40 towards London.

'Oh this is iniquitous,' Sherlock muttered.

'You're all right,' John returned, squeezing his hand again.

This car wasn't as spacious as the previous one, and it didn't have the luxury of separate climates. The fans whirred nosily, giving little relief to those in the back, and the suspension seemed to pick up every bump and dip in the road.

Sherlock started humming again.

'We're going all the way back home!' Mrs Hudson said.

John wanted to respond, but Sherlock suddenly slumped forward over his bowl.

'Sherlock…?'

''m fine,' Sherlock said huskily.

'Where on earth are we going?' Mrs Hudson asked.

They rounded one last corner, and Sherlock retched painfully.

'You're all right,' John muttered instinctively, and he rubbed Sherlock's back and sat forward to shield him from curious or sympathetic eyes. He glanced out of the window.

They were in a narrow street with a terrace of new build houses, all glass and concrete fronts along one side, and the backs of an older terrace along the other side.

They were about two streets away from Baker Street.

Sherlock's head popped up, and he looked around.

'When we've finished rescuing Mycroft, remind me to kill him.'


	5. Chapter 5

John was quite stiff himself when he finally got out of the car. One of the doors on one of the nondescript houses opened, and John recognised Harry from the Palace standing in it. He had a pinched, pained expression on his face. John thought he'd quite like to punch that face, but Sherlock was shivering beside him, and that took priority.

'Mr Holmes needs to lie down now,' he said in a voice that was only just loud enough to carry. He snaked an arm around Sherlock's waist and felt the detective lean very slightly on him.

'We're ready to debrief immediately,' Harry replied.

'Well bully for you,' John replied. 'Mr Holmes needs to lie down.'

Harry looked at Sherlock and seemed to decide that his state wasn't merely affectation. He stood back slightly.

'There's a master bedroom at five set aside for you.'

It took John a moment to work out this referred to a house number rather than a time, and he realised that the whole street must be filled with agents and government owned houses. He nodded and guided Sherlock along the road.

'I'd like to close my eyes,' Sherlock mumbled.

'Very soon, darling, very soon.'

'We're back to 'darling' are we?'

John smirked. 'I'm quite stressed. 'Darling' seems to suit me when I'm stress. Here we are.'

The door at five was opened for them as soon as they reached it. The air was thankfully cool and soothing and the lights were all off. John wondered if the agents had been warned about the situation.

He glanced into the downstairs area. It was furnished in a subdued but perfectly adequate fashion. There was a kitchen just beyond separated by a wide archway.

'I'll make tea,' Mrs Hudson said instantly.

John pushed Sherlock gently towards the staircase and followed him upstairs and into the first door they came to.

'If this isn't the master bedroom, then I don't care,' Sherlock said, sinking down onto the bed. 'Mrs Hudson can have the other.'

John hurried past to close the curtains. Their room overlooked a small yard where someone had taken he time to decorate with plants in large pots and a set of patio furniture.

Sherlock started humming again, and John sat down next to him on the bed.

'You OK?' he asked.

'Interesting question.'

'Sorry. I mean, obviously aside from the sickness and dizziness and pain, how are you feeling?'

Sherlock gave him a pale smile. 'Where did the bowl go?'

'I don't know. The car's gone anyway, so that's going to make a fun find for someone later.'

'Mm. Could you locate the bathroom, please?'

'Do you want me to get you there now?'

'No. I'd just prefer to know where it is.'

There were a number of doors in the room itself, though two of them just led to wardrobes. The third led to a tiny bathroom though, so small it only had room for a shower rather than a bath, but there was at least a toilet and sink.

'Here,' John said. 'You're all set.'

'Thank you.'

'I'll get you some water.'

'Thank you. Can you find some way of contacting Adam? I'm desperate now. Someone must have a way to find his number.'

'I've got it with me. Are you OK while I go and do that?'

'Yes.'

'OK. I'll be back in five minutes.' He kissed Sherlock and darted downstairs.

Mrs Hudson was in the kitchen. It wasn't large enough for a table, but she didn't look like she wanted to leave its comforting familiarity.

'I've made you tea,' she said.

'Thanks. Have you located glasses yet? I need a bowl too.'

She found them for him with startling efficiency.

'Oo, do you think they'll mind if we make some toast?' he asked, spying a toaster that wouldn't look out of place on a space station. 'I'm starving.'

'They can't be allowed to starve us. There's a convention or something.'

She busied herself again, and John left her to it and went to Harry who had joined them in the house, apparently for the sole purpose of looking snide with First Agent.

'Is there a phone?' John asked. 'I was told there'd be a phone for me here.'

'We can make phone calls on your behalf.'

'I need to speak with Sherlock's doctor.'

'Aren't you Sherlock's doctor?'

John felt the last ounce of patience drain away from him. He thought, if he made a monumental effort, he might be able to befriend these men and get them on side.

'Give me a phone, or I'll punch you in the face,' he said.

This might not have been quite what he'd intended to say, but it served the purpose of shaking them slightly, and the outcome was that a phone was produced.

John took the opportunity to scroll through the address book, but there were no names; just numbers against numbers. He dialled the hospital again.

There was still no answer from Adam, but John managed was eventually put through to another doctor in the department. He described the mother of all migraines and gave details of Sherlock's current medication and the most recent seizure, and was just beginning to grow weary of the endless questions when the doctor abruptly agreed to provide a prescription for everything that he'd asked for.

He hung up, relieved.

'Can someone pick up a prescription for me?' he asked.

'I'll go,' Mrs Hudson said. 'I'd like to.'

'You'll be seen and recognised in the area,' First Agent replied. 'I'll send someone.'

'I'll go, sir.' It was Matthew, and John nodded, relieved.

'Thanks. It'll be waiting for you at the neurology department in UCH.'

'In Mr Holmes' name?' First Agent asked.

John realised his error, but refused to let this show on his face. 'Quick as you can,' he said. 'Let's not keep him waiting more than necessary. As soon as he's fully fit, he can find the important one for you.'

He turned from them to retrieve the bowl and the glass of water and went back upstairs.

He found poor Sherlock in the tiny bathroom, hanging over the toilet again.

'I can't believe you made toast,' he muttered.

'I'm hungry. Are you finished in here?'

'I want to die.'

'Yes, but have you finished puking?'

'I think so.' Sherlock shivered and looked exhausted and miserable. 'You look a bit more cheerful. I'm glad someone is.'

'Alright, Eeyore.'

Sherlock sniffed. 'I want to die.'

There was no blind over the frosted window in here, and Sherlock looked green in the light, and he was shivering pathetically. John knelt down and gathered him into his arms. Sherlock buried his face in his shoulder while John rubbed his back.

'I know, love, it's awful, but we are going to make you better. I promise you. I've got painkillers and anti-emetics, and anti-migraines, and an OK to increase your seizure meds tonight. I've sorted drugs and food, and I'm in control again, and I'm going to make you all better now. Come back to bed. This won't last forever.'

'What if it does?'

'It won't.' He held Sherlock firmly and calmly rubbed his back.

'John?'

'Mm?'

'I'm beginning to understand how helpless you felt all those months.'

John stroked. 'Don't worry about it.'

'Actually I think you made a massive fuss. This is much worse than what you had, and I'm coping much better.'

John chuckled and kissed Sherlock's hair. 'You're a trooper.'

'I'm going to be sick again.'

John released him, and he lurched towards the toilet.

'What if I can't take my medication this evening?' Sherlock moaned. 'What if I'm stuck in a hideous catch-22 where I can medicate because nothing stays down, and nothing stays down because I can't medicate.'

'I already told you we have anti-emetics arriving.'

'Go and get them now, please.'

'Matthew's already gone. Anyway, I don't think you are going to be sick. I think you're just winding yourself up now.'

Sherlock vomited.

'OK, well you clearly did that deliberately,' John said, and Sherlock sniggered weakly. 'And it was mostly noise and little substance.'

'I'm not looking for a critique.'

'Come on, I'll get you back to bed. I've got you a shiny new safety bowl so come back to bed.'

He helped Sherlock up again, and led him back into the bedroom. Sherlock curled up on the bed again and hummed quietly to himself. At some point the suitcase had been delivered silently to the room, and John rifled through it for Sherlock's pyjamas.

'Here, do you think you can put these on?' he asked. 'You need to get as comfortable as possible.'

'Mm. Do you think I can have some tea?'

'You want tea?'

'I want very sweet tea with lots of milk. Mrs Hudson knows how.'

'I think I can manage to make tea. Are you sure though?'

'You're going to make me drink something, and I don't want the water.'

'OK, I'll get you a cup of tea. Wait here.'

'Really wasn't thinking of going anywhere.'

John went back down to the kitchen where he found Mrs Hudson mixing batter in a large mixing bowl.

'I'm making a cake for later,' she said. 'Your toast's just there, and I've found the fixings for a curry later. Do you think I need to feed the agents?'

'No, absolutely not. Where have the two sourpusses gone?'

'I don't know. They just left talking with each other. There's someone in the garden though, and someone else outside the front door. I hope Matthew stays with us too. I liked Matthew.'

'Mm. Well, let's be grateful they're giving us some privacy. Listen, let's make it a mission to learn all of their names in the next 24 hours.'

'Why?'

'Because it's important to know who people are. We'll start with just names.'

'How's poor Sherlock. Is there anything I can do?'

'Ah, yes, he says he wants tea.'

'Milky and sweet?'

'Yes.'

'Oh the poor boy.'

'Is that some sort of code?'

'I made him sweet milky tea when he was a little boy when he felt sick.'

'Really?' John frowned. 'How long have you known him?'

'Since he was a very young, love. Didn't you know?'

'No. I mean, I assumed you met him through work. His work I mean.'

'I used to work for his parents.'

'Oh. Doing what? Were you his nanny?'

'No, I was the housekeeper. My mother went mad when I told her. 'A child of mine going into service!' I told her it wasn't like that these days, but she didn't like it. I told that boy too, when he moved into the flat, that I wasn't going back to it again. He's old enough to look after himself now. Well, that's what I told him anyway.'

Mrs Hudson spooned five teaspoons of sugar into a cup and poured the boiling water to half way. She topped up the rest with milk. John watched carefully for future reference.

'Let me know if he needs anything else,' she said as she handed it to him.

'Will do.' He carried it upstairs. Sherlock was sitting on the bed. He'd made a good attempt at his pyjamas, and had at least managed the trousers, but he was holding his t-shirt limply in his hand.

'I've got you that tea. You OK there?'

This was met by silence.

'Marco.'

More silence.

'Shit.' John put the mug down and crouched in front of Sherlock, ready to catch him if he fell.

The reality of the situation hit him. He was stuck in a house in London with no phone so no way of raising help, and the thought reached up into his throat and threatened to choke him. He watched Sherlock with his jaw clenched and heat pricking at his eyes.

It was less than two minutes before Sherlock shuddered gently, and John breathed out. He held the bowl steady as Sherlock retched painfully, but his stomach was well and truly voided by this point.

'Can you lie back down,' John asked.

'Mm?'

'Just lie down.'

Sherlock lay down, but he got straight back up onto all fours and crawled around the bed.

'I'm er…' Sherlock said.

'You're OK,' John said quietly. 'Lie down now.' He encouraged Sherlock down onto the pillows.

Sherlock writhed and rolled over to look at John.

'What's happening?'

'I don't know. You're OK. Just lie still for a bit, OK?'

'My head hurts.'

'I know. Just lie still.'

Sherlock didn't. Instead he crawled away again retching noisily as he went.

'Please stay still, Sherlock. Please just stay still.'

He caught hold of Sherlock's head and held it gently. There was nothing at all coming out of Sherlock now, which John was grateful for, but he didn't stop heaving all the same.

'I've got you,' John said. 'You're OK, just stay still.'

Sherlock grunted and collapsed down on the bed. The bowl seemed to have vanished in all the confusion, so John darted to the bathroom for a towel, just in case. Sherlock was on the move again by the time he'd got back. He got up from the bed and took an uncoordinated couple of paces. John caught him again, and Sherlock swung out in panic. It was more of a slapped push than a punch, but John's cheekbone rang from it. He managed to prevent crying out and kept a firm but gentle hold of Sherlock who suddenly sank down to the floor. He retched again, then again before he finally found something to throw up. John wiped Sherlock's mouth and ached with pity.

'OK, you're all right now. You're OK.'

This seemed to steady Sherlock at last, and he was content to be lifted to the bed. John panted from the panic and exertion.

'I'm sick, John,' Sherlock murmured.

'I know.' John sat beside him and rubbed his leg. 'Just lie still.'

'It hurts. Everything hurts. It all hurts.'

'I know.' John threw the towel through the bathroom door and dropped down to give Sherlock a clumsy hug. 'Just stay still, love,' he whispered. 'Just stay still, OK?' He took the opportunity to cover Sherlock's face with small kisses. Other than that he just stroked and hugged him.

John lost all track of time. He endured what seemed like hours while Sherlock told him he was sick and frightened in an endless loop, and John whispered the same responses over and over again, and then the detective slept while the doctor fretted and quietly stroked him.

A voice behind John made him jump.

'John, I've got the medication. Is there anything else I can do?'

He turned and smiled at Mrs Hudson.

'Nothing. I think we're OK.' He realised, with a certain amount of horror, that he was in danger of crying. 'Don't worry about this,' he said, shaking his head and forcing a smile. 'I can medicate him now, so it's all OK, thank you. Pass me the bag.'

She handed him a large, white paper bag, and looked past him to Sherlock.

'Oh, John.'

John blinked rapidly. 'No, I don't want everyone to get upset. This isn't ideal by any stretch of the imagination, but the latest seizure was both small and short, and it won't have taken anything out of him.'

It was the wrong thing to say.

'He had another seizure? Another one?'

'But just small.' He shook his head and looked desperately at Mrs Hudson. 'I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, but it's been the strangest of strange days, and I'm down to the last, tiniest shred of nerve to hold on to. I can't… I can't do any more right now. I'm sorry, but I can't.'

'It's fine, John.' He was surprised when she pulled him into a brief but firm hug. 'I'll leave you alone with him now. If there's any change, come and find me.'

'I will.'

She left the room, and John allowed himself a full five seconds of crying. As soon as those five seconds were up, he shook himself out of it, wiped his face and went through the medication. His hand hovered over the small packet containing a suppository form of diazepam, but he knew it wasn't necessary yet. He put it on the bedside cabinet. He left all the rest apart from the anti-emetic patches, and he unwrapped one of these and stuck it onto Sherlock's arm. Then he crawled into the bed and wrapped his arms around Sherlock and stroked and stroked his back.

Sherlock slept quietly, responding to the occasional prod from John. After half an hour, he woke up and looked at John.

'Did you make that tea?'

'Yes.' John kissed his head. 'It's on the table but it's probably cold. I can make another if you want it?'

'Mm.'

'Are you feeling a bit better?'

'No. I feel like hell. My stomach is aching, and my ribs feel like they've been kicked.'

'That's all the vomiting, that's all. You haven't been kicked.' John wiped his eyes again. 'The medication's arrived too. I've sorted an anti-emetic for you.'

Sherlock put his hand to the patch. 'I'm not convinced it's working.'

'Well you woke up wanting tea, so that's something.'

John sniffed, and Sherlock frowned at him. He wiped a stray tear from John's face with his thumb, and traced over the red mark on John's cheek. He clenched his teeth together.

'I'm sorry,' he said.

'I know. It doesn't matter.'

'How long was I out?'

'Stage one, I'm not sure, I was downstairs when it started, but I think less than two minutes. It wasn't a bad-ass one, just a weedy one. Stage two, I'm not sure, I didn't check properly. About an hour or so. But I think you were asleep for some of it.'

Sherlock wiped another tear away. 'Your crying is worrying me. Are you badly hurt? What else did I do to you?'

'Nothing. Nothing at all, you're fine.' He sighed. 'I don't mean to cry. It's just I hoped this was all behind us too. And for a second there, I was starting to feel in charge. Not any more. Now I'm beginning to think it might be time for another brain scan.'

Sherlock moaned quietly. 'Can we start with just the tea?'

'We can, I'll get it.'

'I'll have it cold. Give me the cold one.' Sherlock pushed and pulled until he was sitting mostly upright again.

'You can stay where you are,' John said.

'I wasn't going to move. Are there painkillers I can have now?'

'I have some nice anti-migraine wafers. You don't have to swallow them – they melt on your tongue.'

'That sounds helpful; hand them over.'

John took one out and hesitated. 'The thing is, you can only have one a month, so if you think you're getting better without it, it might be better to wait for the next migraine.'

'I'm hoping there won't be another one. Hand it over.'

John did so and watched as Sherlock popped it on his tongue. 'Right, about this tea…' Sherlock held his hands out. 'I know Mrs Hudson is the god of tea, but I'm really not convinced it's a good idea on a sensitive stomach. Are you sure you won't start with just water?'

Sherlock swallowed. 'I've got the patches now, and besides, Mrs Hudson always did it for me. Her attitude was that if it stayed down, it stayed down, and if it didn't, at least it wouldn't taste vile coming up again.'

'Fine, then I'll let you use Mrs Hudson's remedy if you'll also eat some toast.'

'If it'll make you quiet.' He took the tea and drank some of it.

'I want you to take your evening dose now too.'

'But I take it at bedtime.'

John checked his watch. 'This is close enough. It's not like you're going to be dancing around this evening anyway. Besides, if the wafer knocks you out, which it might well, then it's your last chance anyhow.

'Let me at least have the tea first.' He drank some more.

'How does it taste?' John asked.

'It could be sweeter.'

'But it tastes like tea?'

'Pretty much.'

'Well that's good news at least. Perhaps we've seen off the seizures for now.'

'Mm. These patches are worse than useless though.' He handed his cup to John so that he could vomit the tea into the bowl. 'See, it tastes the same,' he said.

'I'll take your word for it.'

'At least it doesn't ache so badly if there's something there.' Sherlock spat. 'I thought I was going turn inside out earlier. I'm very concerned about my evening dose.'

'Let's give it half an hour. The wafer should have kicked in by then and that'll give us our best chance.'

'Should I have another wafer?'

'No, that will have been absorbed already. It goes in via the mouth, not the stomach.'

'Mm.' Sherlock settled back again and lay still.

'Marco,' John said.

'Polo.'

John took the bowl through to the bathroom to wash out. He returned to Sherlock and got back into bed with him. He squeezed Sherlock's hand and was pleased that it was returned.

'I'm thinking of writing another blog post,' Sherlock said after a while.

'Really?'

'Mm. I think this one might have mass appeal. I'll list all the foods that taste basically the same if you're vomiting rather than consuming them.'

John kissed his head. 'Sounds enthralling.'

'You can contribute too. You have some… stuff. Game. Well, you know about vomiting. We can create subcategories for textures. Mashed potato is surprisingly hard to vomit, f'r example.'

'Good to know. Thank you.'

'Your obsession about toast in this area is wrong. If it's not correctly chewed, it can be quite painful.'

'Perhaps it should come with a safety warning.'

'Mm. Rice feels like bullets.'

'No, rice feels like people think bullets would feel if they've never been shot. Are you getting sleepy?'

'A bit.'

'How's the pain?'

Sherlock considered this. 'I don't know.'

'Well, that's a step up from you wanting to die. I'm going to sit you up again now for your dose.'

'You said half 'r hour.'

'Yes, but you're very drowsy.'

'No 'm'not.'

'Come on, Sherlock. I really don't want to risk another day like today tomorrow.'

'Mm.'

'Come on.' John helped Sherlock sit up. 'Here you go; take these.'

'There're three.'

'Yes. You're taking half again tonight.'

'I take two.'

'Take three today. They're the last of your old meds. The new ones are bigger so you can take two again.'

Sherlock stared blankly.

'Take your meds, Sherlock.'

'All three?'

'Yes. All three.'

Sherlock managed to swallow down the three small pills, and he asked for his tea again. John was wary, but he helped him anyway, and as soon as he'd finished it, Sherlock settled down again and closed his eyes. He was asleep within seconds.


	6. Chapter 6

**Have I already published this evening? I forget. I'm in a carefree sort of mood, so have a bonus one anyhow. There's also a tiny favour for anyone so inclined on my profile page should you wish to look (might take half an hour to update).**

**Thanks so much for the lovely comments on this. You're doing wonders for my self-confidence, so thank you.**

**Pip xxx**

* * *

John lay next to Sherlock, stroking him gently. He waited an hour to be satisfied that his breathing was coming easily, and the sleep was normal and restorative, and then he went downstairs. Mrs Hudson was sitting at the small table in the living room with her hands around a cup of tea. John wasn't sure how she coped with the heat. She looked up at him expectantly.

'He's OK. He's been asleep for about an hour, and he was lucid for a good half hour before that,' he said. 'Well, lucid for Sherlock anyhow. I think he's OK now.'

She sighed and smiled with relief. 'Sit down, John. I'll make you a cup of tea.'

'I can manage. I could make you one even.'

'You sit down.' She started bustling around the kitchen and John followed her. 'Your toast went cold, but I can cook you something else now.'

'You really don't need to.'

John's stomach rumbled loudly, and Mrs Hudson smiled and squeezed his shoulder.

'I worry about these agents. It's hardly their fault, is it? I'm going to cut up my cake and send it out them.'

'You don't need to.'

'You were right; it is easier now that I know some names. Matthew's still with us. He's just outside the front. We have a lady now too, her name's O'Brian, but she wouldn't give her first name. It's funny being a woman in that line of work, I suppose. Perhaps she thinks we wouldn't take an 'Amy' as seriously. I'm sure she knows her job though. Anyhow, she's out the back, and she took over from a man called Patrick Pollen.'

'OK, so that's our first three.'

'I can't tell you anything else though. Just names.'

'It's a start.'

'Where are they all going to sleep?'

'I really don't care. Do you know why they're here?'

She turned to frown at him. 'To look after Sherlock. So he can find Mycroft.'

'No, finding Mycroft is a long way down the agenda. The want to look after Sherlock so he can_ replace_ Mycroft.'

Mrs Hudson frowned. 'But that's ridiculous!'

'Of course it is.'

'Have they met Sherlock? He's not remotely cut out for the diplomatic service. I'm not sure if he even knows what diplomatic means!'

John burst into laughter at the indignant look on her face.

'Sorry,' he said. He laughed again. 'God, could you imagine it?'

Mrs Hudson chuckled too. 'I'm not sure the human race would survive.'

'Well from what I can make out, Sherlock would prefer to find Mycroft. Mostly he's been preoccupied though.'

'Poor boy.'

'Mm.' John thought about the blog post and smiled again.

'What was he like as a child?'

'Sherlock? Imagine him as he now, but with all the buttons set to maximum and no concept of limits or boundaries. I mean, at least these days he understands there's boundaries out there, even if he chooses to ignore them.'

'God.'

'So you see; I can help if you need me to.'

He watched her chopping onions. 'You help all the time in immeasurable ways.'

'Not with Sherlock though. You've barely left his side this past three months. You haven't even been out for a run.' She swept the onions into a frying pan and they hissed. The room filled with the most delicious smell, and John's stomach growled again.

'Last time I went for a run I was attacked and nearly didn't make it home. It's for my good as much as his.'

'No it's not.'

'No.' John sighed. 'It's not.' Mrs Hudson looked at him, expectantly, and he found he wasn't remotely equipped for this conversation. 'I'm going to check on him.'

He walked slowly upstairs, half dreading what he might find.

Sherlock was sprawled across the bed, breathing normally, with all his limbs in a state of pure relaxation. John watched contentedly for a while before going back to the kitchen. There was a pot of curry simmering on the stovetop now, and Mrs Hudson was sitting back at the little table. A cup of tea was there waiting for him, and John got the impression that Mrs Hudson was about to give him calm and very gentle talking to. He sank down next to his tea and didn't meet her eyes.

'I'm making you a curry. It's mostly from a jar but it'll do for now.'

'Thank you.' He fiddled with his fingernails. 'I know you want to help, I know you can help, but please…. It's just… He hates it. He really hates it. He finds it so humiliating and degrading, and he doesn't want people to see. The least I can do is to shield him a bit.'

'But it's just me.'

'I know but…' John's eyes welled again, and he felt foolish. He rubbed them hard and willed them to just stop.

Mrs Hudson took hold of his free hand and squeezed it. He was used to a stronger, more wilful hand in his.

'I'm sorry,' he muttered.

'It's OK, John. You're doing too much though. It's too much for you by yourself.'

John shook his head.

'It is hard, there's no denying that. But the thing itself is nothing… well, it's not nothing, it's hard work, but I could cope with the sick and every other part of it… God, Mrs Hudson, he lost bladder control today, and I couldn't do anything about it so he knew, and I think that…' He broke of, fearing he'd lose control his voice, and she squeezed his hand gently. He swallowed and tried to keep calm.

'He hit me.' It burst out without it meaning to. 'He pushes and wrestles sometimes. Once he bit me. Sometimes he doesn't do any of that and he just lies there, completely vacant, but other times he doesn't know what he's doing, and he's terrified, and he doesn't know me, and afterwards he…' John stopped and tried to prevent himself actually sobbing. 'He hates it afterwards, but at least it's just me. Can you imagine what he'd feel if he hurt you?'

'But John, I don't mind!'

'But we do! This is the problem we have. It's not the seizure itself, which is bad enough, but we could at least bloody cope with it if it weren't for the time straight afterwards. Sometimes he doesn't recognise me at all.' He stopped again so he could squash the pain of this disclosure. 'What always happens is that he's frightened and confused and nothing makes sense to him at all. I mean, him. _Him._ Sherlock not understanding anything at all! It's bloody frightening. It's horrific, really horrific. I hate it. He hates it.'

John shuddered, and two teardrops splashed on the table. Mrs Hudson didn't comment on them. She just squeezed John's hand.

'We had no time,' John said angrily. 'We had no time together, just me and him. First there was my thing and getting the bloody flu, and we'd barely worked out how to be together and vaguely normal, and then this came along, and we have no clue, _no clue_ how to handle it. All we can work out is me being with him and helping with whatever happens whenever it happens, and him being terrified and us both hating it. We have small moments which are normal and happy and fun, and then, god-damn-it, it's all taken away again in a second.'

'What do you want to do?'

'I want to be with him every second of every day, taking every normal moment that I can get and holding onto it like a greedy child, and I want to be there every other second in case he needs me. That's what I want. We have so little, and I don't want to share it.'

She squeezed and shook his hand gently.

'Sorry,' he sniffed. 'I know you could handle it as well as I could. Better, probably. But he hates it. But it seems… I don't know, _contained_ when it's just him and me.'

Mrs Hudson nodded and squeezed his hand again. 'No, I think you're right. You and him need to work this out, and I know it's hard, but you're there really. It feels like you're not, but you are. You don't need or want a third person interfering.'

John was surprised out of his tears. 'Really?'

'Of course I want to help, but I understand it now. Thank you.'

'Sorry,' he muttered, and he wiped his eyes again. 'Sorry, I need to check on him again.' He panicked as he ran upstairs, as if the action of just discussing a seizure, as if the disloyalty he felt even uttering these thoughts aloud, might be enough to bring one on. Sherlock was still sprawled asleep on the bed. He looked the way he always looked when he slept. John stroked a finger along the sole of the bare foot that was poking out from the sheet and breathed out when Sherlock's leg jerked. He sat down on the bed and cried some more. Sherlock stirred and woke up and looked sleepily across at him.

'You OK?' he asked.

'Yeah. Go back to sleep.'

'You're crying.'

'I'm fine. Go back to sleep.'

'Did I…?'

'No, nothing like that, love. You're fine. Go back to sleep.'

Sherlock rolled over, rubbed his face into the pillows and went straight back to sleep. John calmed down, went to wash his face in the little bathroom, and went back downstairs. He sat at the table alone and stared at the wall thinking of everything in the world and nothing at all.

He returned swiftly to the present when a plate of curry and rice appeared before him.

He smiled. 'Mrs Hudson, I love that man up there more than I thought I was capable of loving anyone. But you come a very close second.'

'You're welcome John.'

He virtually inhaled his meal and looked up to note Mrs Hudson was listlessly picking at hers.

'He's fine now,' he said. 'He's sleeping normally.'

'I know, love. And I know you can look after him.'

He watched her eyes for a moment. 'I think Mycroft will be fine too. Sherlock seems pretty sure he can help. That's why he agreed to come; because if Mycroft needs him, he needs him here.'

She gave him a watery smile. 'If I know the pair of them, he's probably right. If they're working together, there's nothing they can't do.' She sighed. 'That's a big if though. John, I know you've found Mycroft difficult to deal with, and I know that Sherlock says he hates the man…'

'I know he doesn't though. Even before he came here, I knew he didn't hate him. Sherlock's all talk when it comes to that.'

'Yes. He's made quite a lot of noise about it over the years though.'

John smiled at her. 'So, baby Sherlock was a handful, was he? What about Mycroft?'

'I missed baby Sherlock by a few years. I started work there when Sherlock was already six, but yes, a handful covers it quite well. Mycroft was away at school when I first arrived, so I got to know Sherlock without him. I remember Sherlock boasting that he'd got me first almost as soon as Mycroft walked through the door. It was a funny thing.' She smiled remembering. 'I know I'm not supposed to have favourites, but… Well, what does it matter really? I'm not their mother. Mycroft was a lot like he is now, but smaller. He had an awful temper on him then though. He had the sense of what is correct and proper that he's got now, but just under the surface there were volcanoes ready to erupt if you said the wrong thing.'

'I imagine Sherlock said the wrong thing regularly.'

'Oh yes. 'The little one knows how to push the big one's buttons'. That's how Mrs Holmes put it to me.'

'What were they like? The senior Holmeses? Sherlock has mentioned before that his thing's hereditary, and Mycroft's much the same…'

'No, their parents weren't clever. Not in the same way anyhow. Mr Holmes did well enough but he wasn't anything special like the boys, and Mrs Holmes always seemed as though she was running to catch up. Their fraternal grandmother, Old Mrs Holmes, she was frighteningly clever though. She lived at the house too for the few years before she died. She watched those boys like a hawk, always testing them, always pushing them. I remember being pleased when I was told she was coming, because I thought it would be good for them to have someone paying attention. Then she arrived and it seemed worse. So much rivalry between them.'

'I can imagine the Christmas dinners,' John said, half to himself.

'You can't.' Mrs Hudson smiled. 'Usual something or other was broken. Only one time a person,' she smiled, but it quickly faded. 'Though another time it was a whole marriage. John, you need to understand about Mycroft… I remember once, after a particularly trying Christmas, Mycroft seem to give up. It was just that one time; I've never seen it before or since, but that one Christmas I found him sitting downstairs in my kitchen in the dark. It took me a second to work out he was drunk as a lord. He was so calm and so clear. He told me a story from when he was a child. I didn't really want to hear it, but he wanted to tell me. He'd heard his mother once talking to a friend when she was pregnant. She'd been asked whether she wanted a girl next, as she already had the one son, and she said 'I really don't care as long as this one's normal.'' Mrs Hudson sighed remembering. 'I don't mean to speak ill of the dead, but she had no idea what she was doing with either one of them. Mr Holmes was aloof, and the boys had all these brains and no idea what to do with them. Mycroft decided it all quite early and tried to force Sherlock into line. Is it any wonder really?'

She shook her head. 'Mycroft never let me in but for that one time, not like Sherlock, but I felt I understood him a little better after that Christmas. I wouldn't want anything bad to happen to him now.'

John stroked her hand. 'I'm sure nothing will. Look, one thing that's Sherlock's said today is that Mycroft might not even have been kidnapped. Or he was kidnapped, but he went with them willingly.'

'But why would he do that?'

'I don't know. To be honest, it's been harder than usual to tell what Sherlock's thinking today. But he has a theory that Mycroft's actually in control of all of this.'

'I don't understand.'

'Neither do I. Anyhow, Sherlock will be well by tomorrow, and he'll do his damnedest to get Mycroft back in one piece.'

'Yes, he will.' She looked up sharply. 'You won't tell him will you? I mean, when we find Mycroft. He'd be mortified if he knew you knew.'

'Of course I wouldn't.'

'I shouldn't have said really. I've never told anyone before, not even his parents when I was making excuses for him for that evening. It's been a funny old day.'

'Yes it has.'

'And you won't tell Sherlock either?'

'Of course not. Like it would help him to know he was the much longed for normal child.'

Mrs Hudson smiled. 'You look tired.'

'I am a bit. I want to be up there really. Will you be OK down here by yourself?'

'I think I'm probably the second best protected old lady in the country tonight. You go up now, love.'

'All right. I'll see you in the morning. If there's anything you need tonight, just knock on my door.'

John climbed the stairs again and went into their bedroom. Sherlock was still soundly asleep. John took his pyjamas to the bathroom to get changed, and he got ready for bed in the calm evening light. Sherlock had moved himself around so that he was sprawled on the diagonal, and John couldn't quite work out which side of the bed offered the most room, but using a method of careful rolling and pushing, he made himself comfortable enough to sleep. He was staring at the ceiling, waiting for sleep to come when Sherlock thrashed just once and rolled over to pull John tightly into his arms like he was a baby holding onto a comforter. John sighed and had just decided it was likely he'd be awake all night when exhaustion got the better of him, and he fell asleep.


	7. Chapter 7

John dreamt of the fall again.

He'd seen it again many times and from all angles. Sometimes he'd be watching from the rooftop at Barts. Other times he'd fall down beside Sherlock, with Sherlock looking into his eyes. Tonight he was on the floor, watching Sherlock fall down towards him. He watched for hours, powerless to help, desperate and terrified, he watched him fall and fall.

The thing he saw most often was the thing he'd never seen at all. The moment when Sherlock hit the floor. That sickening crunch, the spray of the blood, the explosion of brains, and then those lifeless eyes.

'John?'

John struggled and woke up. Sherlock was holding him down by his shoulder and was looking at him with that piercing, golden look.

'You were dreaming again,' he said.

'God, sorry.' John rubbed his face to shift the last of the image.

'Are you OK?'

'I'm fine.' John waited for his heart to slow. 'What about you? I really didn't mean to wake you. How are you feeling?'

'I'm fine, and you didn't wake me. Well, I have a headache, but it's the normal sort, not the brain trying to escape my head sort.' John shuddered, and Sherlock frowned, and traced a finger gently across the side of his head. 'What was it? The bomb again?'

'Yeah. It's fine though. I mean; it's to be expected after yesterday.' John kissed Sherlock and pulled himself together. He sat up on the bed. 'As is your headache. You didn't have nearly enough to eat or drink yesterday, so that's probably all it is now. Let's get up and find some breakfast.'

Sherlock moaned. 'I don't suppose my insufferable brother turned up in the night did he?'

'If he did, nobody told me.'

'Urgh. I suppose I'll have to get on and do that now.'

John looked at him. 'You do, but in all seriousness, you need to go steady today.'

'But I'm better.'

'But we don't know what caused yesterday yet. If it was stress from the two cases then…'

'John!'

'Sherlock…'

'No! I don't want to have this conversation _again!_ I've said over and over that if I can't work then there's no point to anything!'

'Sherlock…'

'I mean it! If I can't work, I might as well die anyway.'

John chewed his lip, sullenly.

'Oh great,' Sherlock said. 'Now you're going to go all passive and sulky. Fantastic.'

'I'm not! I just don't want to fight about this today, so I'm not fighting.'

'But you think I'm wrong.'

'Yes I bloody do! But I don't want to fight with you! I'd quite like to get on with being happy that you're alive and OK, so just shut up, will you?'

Sherlock glowered.

'Stop it,' John said. 'Look, I love you on a whole different level than I've ever loved anyone else. I'm way over my capacity to love and it still keeps coming, so stop with all this 'I'd rather die' crap, will you? Yesterday was hideous, just _hideous,_ and yes it was far worse for you, but it was still pretty damned awful watching it happen, and I'd rather not repeat it. So all I'm saying is go steady. Now I've said it and you've heard, you can do as you damn well please, like always.'

Sherlock listened and put a hand on the small of John's back.

John huffed. 'I'm not allowed to put myself in danger, and I'm not allowed to mention I'm slightly queasy because it puts you in mind of those weeks when I was ill, but you're allowed to just go and wish your life away. It isn't fair. It's not on.'

Sherlock's hand expanded and contracted on John's back. 'John, you need to know that you're the finest human being I've ever met,' he said. 'I'm constantly surprised that you bother with me at all. I say these things because it's a simple fact that my life is less valuable than yours.'

'Not to me.'

'Yes. I forget that. I forget that this must hurt you too. I'm sorry.' His hand stroked slightly. 'I think I'd rather avoid a repeat of yesterday too. I'll go steady.'

'OK. Good. Well, now we both know where we stand, let's go and find some breakfast.'

The hand expanded and contracted.

'We could. But I'm sure that Mycroft could wait half an hour for us.'

John laughed. 'Go steady I say, take it easy, I say, and you say let's have sex when I've had almost nothing to eat or drink for twenty four hours and I've already got a headache. Good grief.'

'But on an empty stomach is my best time. I hate sex when I've just eaten.'

'You _hate_ it?'

'Well maybe not _hate_…'

'Get up and shower. I'll be downstairs waiting for you.'

'Spoilsport.'

'Get up and shower.'

John pulled himself out of bed with a certain amount of reluctance which he did his best to conceal, and he trotted downstairs. Mrs Hudson was there before him, fully dressed and getting on with the day.

She looked up at him eagerly. 'Morning. How was the night?'

'It was fine. He's much better this morning.'

'Oh that is good. That's a relief.'

'Yes.'

'I couldn't tell whether you were talking him round just now, or whether you were arguing.'

'Neither. We just had a frank exchange of views, that's all.'

'You need to give him time to recover.'

'Mm.' John looked out into the garden. He couldn't tell if he'd seen this agent before. There was a vague familiarity, so it could be Patrick, but it could just as easily be one of the men from the cars. He was glad that Mrs Hudson probably knew. 'Perhaps we should have breakfast outside this morning. Just because we can.'

'It's not a holiday.'

'No, I know. But the situation won't change in any way whether we eat at the table in here or the table out there. Besides, it might encourage himself to go slowly and savour it a bit.'

'That's not a bad idea.'

'What's not a bad idea?' Sherlock asked, coming in.

'We're eating breakfast outside,' Mrs Hudson told him. She looked at him from top to toe, and pursed her lips at his pallor.

'Why?' he asked.

'Because we can,' John said.

'Now what do you want to eat?' Mrs Hudson asked.

'Just toast, thank you, but I'd very much like a coffee. A strong coffee.'

Mrs Hudson glanced at John who gave a slight nod, and then she busied herself. Sherlock looked at both of them and smiled faintly. He pulled open the patio doors of the kitchen and stepped outside.

John investigated the fridge and gave a low whistle. 'They've certainly stocked up well. I'm going to make myself a whole breakfast, I think. Do you want one?'

'No, I'm fine, thank you.'

'Because I think we've got a code five going on.'

Her eyes slipped past him to where Sherlock was standing in the morning sun. 'Actually, that would be very nice, thank you.'

John grinned. 'Right you are.'

A little later he carried two plates piled high with eggs, bacon, sausages, mushrooms and tomatoes into the garden and placed one in front of Mrs Hudson.

'Thank you, John,' she smiled.

Sherlock frowned at them. 'You're going to eat all that?'

'I'm certainly going to try. How's your toast?'

Sherlock looked at it a little disappointedly. 'It's fine, thank you.'

'Good-o.' John piled his fork high and enjoyed himself.

'I can't eat if I have to work,' Sherlock said to nobody in particular.

John and Mrs Hudson ate.

'Though arguably I need to replace protein from yesterday,' Sherlock said.

Other people were busy chewing.

'Is that a proper butcher's sausage?' Sherlock asked. 'Let me have one, and I'll tell you which butcher in a five mile radius produced it. I can probably even tell you the breed of pig.'

John slid a sausage onto Sherlock's empty toast plate.

'I bet that egg's free range too.'

'Probably,' John agreed.

Mrs Hudson slid an egg to Sherlock.

'The mushrooms are probably…'

'Give me your plate,' John interrupted.

He took it with Mrs Hudson's help divided up a small portion for Sherlock from their plates. Not so much as to make him sluggish, but enough to keep him going for a good few hours. Sherlock took his plate back happily.

'This is all for scientific purposes, you understand,' he said.

John kissed his cheek and went back to his meal. Sherlock darted to get himself cutlery.

'He does seem better then,' Mrs Hudson commented.

'Yes. And it was just a necessary exchange of views, that's all.'

Sherlock came back to the table, being trailed by Harry and First Agent.

'I found these people.' He sat down and set about his meal.

Harry looked mildly shocked at their breakfast table.

'I was rather hoping to get on now. Mr Holmes senior has been missing for over twenty hours now.'

John checked his watch. 'Is there anything part of his situation that would be improved if we starved ourselves?'

Harry frowned, but he didn't argue.

'Have a seat,' Sherlock said, pointing to the spare one with his knife. 'Tell me what happened.'

Harry sat down. Nobody rushed to offer him a cup of coffee.

'As to what happened, Mr Holmes, we were rather hoping you would tell us. Mr Mycroft Holmes came to work yesterday as usual, and he stayed there all morning. At 11:46 he was seen by his personal secretary, Ms Gardiner, as he passed through her office. Mr Humphrey Appleby was in the corridor at that time, and they had a brief conversation. Mr Appleby continued in the opposite direction to Mr Holmes. Ms Gardiner saw Mr Holmes return to his office at approximately noon, and that was the last anyone saw of him. Ms Gardiner didn't see him leave again, though she does leave from time to time for refreshments, however, Mr Holmes was not seen on the security camera in the corridor outside his office. There is an exit at the bottom of the stairwell outside his office, but that area is covered by a closed circuit camera and a security guard. There was no break in the recording from the camera, and the security guard did not see him pass. He wasn't caught on the camera on the floor above either.'

'Is this exit the main exit?' Sherlock asked.

'No, quite the opposite. It offers an extra escape route for the offices at that end of the building, but there are few offices there. Mr Holmes preferred to use that entrance and exit because it's so quiet.'

'What was Mr Appleby doing there?' John asked.

'I beg your pardon?'

'I've been to Mycroft's office,' John said. 'He's stuck out in the arse end of nowhere. There are no other offices on that corridor; just his. It's half way up a sodding stair case; I'd assumed it was a toilet until it turned out it wasn't. So why was Mr Appleby there?'

'As you say, Mr Holmes' office is along a route to the larger upstairs paralegal pool. Mr Appleby was going there.'

'He couldn't call?'

Harry glared at John.

'Is there another route to the paralegal pool that doesn't run along the corridor that Mr Holmes specifically keeps quiet?' John persisted.

Harry shifted in his seat. 'Mr Appleby is a senior civil servant!'

'So's Mr Holmes,' John said, nonplussed.

'I can assure you, Mr Appleby has been questioned…'

'I'll need to see the video from the security camera,' Sherlock cut in. 'I need access to a computer and the internet too.'

'It's important that you make sure you remain hidden,' First Agent said. 'Even on the internet.'

'I will do,' Sherlock said. 'What about my brother's workload? Is there a particular project that he's working on at the moment?'

Neither man seemed eager to tell Sherlock about anything.

'It might be relevant,' Sherlock said. 'Besides, isn't the point of bringing me here so that I can safely pick up anything that's left?'

'We will be bringing all of Mycroft's files over to you later,' First Agent said.

'Some of the reason we're concerned for him,' Harry said steadily, 'is that there have been a series of disappearances of senior civil servants in around the world.'

John's eyebrows shot up. 'And you decided to keep this from us?'

'You understand that discretion is…'

Sherlock cut in. 'John, I'm experiencing a strange reaction at the moment, which I fear may be...' He passed a hand over his mouth. 'Excuse me a moment,' he choked.

He leapt up and darted inside.

'Shit,' John muttered, and he darted after him.

He went straight into the small bathroom. Sherlock was crouched by the toilet.

'You OK?' John asked.

'Fine,' Sherlock mouthed, grinning at him. 'No,' he complained aloud.

John shut the door and locked it.

'I'll run you some water,' John said, and he turned the tap on fully, running a face cloth underneath it. He looked down at Sherlock who grinned again before looking down at his own hand, resting on the toilet seat. His finger started tapping away. He coughed and made a loud retching sound.

It took John a moment to register the tapping, but he got there before the message looped a third time.

_Quiet. Bugs everywhere._

'You're all right,' John said. 'Just calm down and take it easy.' He put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder and tapped _copy_.

Sherlock coughed again but continued tapping. _Mycroft fine_.

'Are you feeling better now?' John asked. He reached past and flushed the toilet. 'Do you think you can come and lie down for a bit?'

'Mm, I think so,' Sherlock muttered. 'Thank you, John.'

John helped him up and went with him to the bedroom. Sherlock lay down on his back and John sat next to him and took his hand.

'Just breathe calmly,' he said.

'Thank you.' Sherlock murmured. He started tapping on the palm of John's hand.

_New codes. 2 cameras, 3 mics, 4 suspect._

John leaned forward and kissed Sherlock's face. 'I think you're going to be fine. Just stay here for a bit.'

Sherlock's finger stated up.

_Mrs Hudson…_

Out loud he said; 'but Mycroft…'

'Just stay still. I can sort everything else out for now. Just stay still.'


	8. Chapter 8

John trotted briskly back downstairs, only remembering half way down that he needed to walk in a concerned fashion. He went out to the garden.

'He's fine,' he said to three curious looks, before he remembered again. 'He needs to be still for half an hour or so, but then I think he'll be fine.'

'Don't rush him, John,' Mrs Hudson said. 'He must be terribly worried about poor Mycroft.'

'I won't rush him, I promise you. Let me tidy up.'

'We need Mr Holmes on the case as soon as he's possibly able,' Harry said.

'I know that,' John replied. 'Where can he use the Internet? What about these security videos? Is there somewhere he can watch them?'

'Headquarters is at number nine,' First Officer replied. 'He should meet us there.'

'I'll bring him along when he's recovered.' John started stacking up the plates and cups from the table, studiously avoiding looking at anyone.

'I need to debrief the night watch,' First Agent said.

'I'll join you,' Harry said. 'I don't know all of these people yet.'

John followed them as far as the kitchen and piled the plates into the sink. He looked out to where Mrs Hudson was still sitting at the table, playing with her gold necklace and looking desperately sad. He sighed as he turned the taps on, thinking that life would be considerably easier if he'd spent hours teaching Mrs Hudson Morse code rather than watching terrible TV. He wondered if he could write a message in the soap suds and wished he could be sure he knew where the kitchen cameras were. There were three that he thought he'd spotted with just a cursory glance, but he couldn't wander around searching. Sherlock was much better at that sort of thing.

Mrs Hudson came into the kitchen.

'I'm sorry, John, I left you to clear when you cooked.'

'You cooked and cleared yesterday. I'm returning the favour.'

'Let me do something. It feels awful doing nothing.'

John wiped his hands on a tea towel and turned to her. She was still playing with her necklace and her eyes were damp and slightly red. He pulled her into a hug and calculated the fewest words he could say to her without being confusing.

She was surprised, but she hugged him back. She tried to release him, but he held onto her and put his mouth close to her ear and murmured, barely moving his mouth.

'He's fine, Mycroft's fine, trust us.'

That was all. She stiffened slightly, then patted him twice on the back and pulled away.

'Let me wash up,' she said. 'You go up and see to poor Sherlock.'

John nodded, just trusting that the message had been received, and he went back upstairs.

Sherlock was still lying on the bed and had buried himself under the sheet. John got in beside him and pulled the sheet up to his chin. He kissed him and found his hand under the sheet.

_Mrs Hudson on side. Code2 Kitchen, over fridge, over door, hallway on stairs, no code 3._

Sherlock blinked once.

John kissed him again. 'They've asked you to go to HQ at number nine as soon as you're feeling better.' He ran a hand through Sherlock's fringe. 'How are you feeling?'

'Better. I think it was a passing thing.'

'Good.'

'I'll get up now.'

He started to, but John remembered something and pulled him back down again. He remembered how this must look to someone elsewhere, and floundered.

'Let me just check you're completely better,' he said suggestively. He blushed and nearly giggled at Sherlock's cross look. 'Just five minutes with me here, just you and me. Please.'

Sherlock swept the sheet so it settled over them again, covering them to their noses. His eyes were smouldering now, but not with lust, John knew, but with curiosity.

John kissed him deeply. As they separated, John whispered.

'Mycroft texted you.'

Sherlock gave a tiny frown in response.

'It was a number,' John whispered.

Sherlock moaned over him, and he wondered how terrible the number could be until he remembered what he and Sherlock were meant to be doing. Sherlock's hand caught his and tapped out _number?_

John's mind went spectacularly blank. He couldn't remember any one of the digits. He squeezed Sherlock's hand and kissed him.

Sherlock's frown was obvious now, and John blushed hotly. John kissed him and stroked his side. As they broke apart, Sherlock whispered back.

'Anything else you're not telling me?'

'Lestrade's knocked up Molly.'

Sherlock burst out a laugh and his eyes danced. He pulled John closer. 'One more, then we need to get up,' he said loudly. He pulled the sheet down before he kissed him deeply.

oOo

The house at number 9 had the same basic floor plan as number 5, but it was set up as an office. Somehow, the living and dining room seemed even more small and cramped with desks and computers in it. The kitchen was still there, but it was stark and unloved, and only a small section of it had been saved for the purpose of heating ready meals and preparing caffeine distribution liquids. It was not a space for preparing a meal with friends. Half of it was set up with a miniature lab – the worktop held at least two microscopes and something that put John in mind of a dialysis machine. There was an x-ray machine where the oven should be. Sherlock nodded approvingly.

'Don't get any ideas,' John murmured.

'We can go downstairs,' Harry said, greeting them.

'Downstairs?' John said, but he was ignored.

He followed Sherlock and Harry down a staircase from the kitchen into a long underground room. In the middle of it, there was a long, thin conference table where at least twenty people could sit comfortably. There was a small area at the end where comfortable lounge chairs faced each other for more intimate meetings, and at the other end were several computers and a plasma screen affixed to the wall.

None of this surprised John. He was too busy being surprised by the dimensions of the room. Their safe house was tiny, and it was quite clear that this cellar ran the entire length of the little terrace, and under the gardens too.

It was cool down here. Sherlock walked through the room as comfortably as he would walk through the Palace or a rubbish tip or a police station. John fought the urge to graffiti something inappropriate on the stark, off-white walls.

There were several laptops already there, and First Agent was working at one of them.

'Ah, Mr Holmes, you are recovered, I hope?'

'Yes, thank you.'

First Agent's eyes slid to John, and there was a slight smirk behind them. John stood a little straighter.

'We have the security videos ready for you on the computer there, sir,' First Agent nodded to the computers on the end desks. 'The computer is set up with internet access.'

'I've also sent for the floor plans of your brother's office,' Harry said.

'Why?' Sherlock asked.

'Well, if your theory that he's gone on his own free will is correct…'

'What theory?'

Sherlock stared at First Agent whose face didn't flicker, but Harry's creased into a frown.

'I understood you believe your brother to be safe and well,' Harry said. 'You said yesterday…'

'I said no such thing.'

There was a slight pause.

'Er, Sherlock,' John said quietly, 'among some of your babble yesterday, you mentioned to me that you weren't sure that Mycroft was in danger…'

'Yes, I mentioned it to_ you_ as way to keep Mrs Hudson calm.'

'Perhaps I got the wrong end of the stick?'

'When you discussed it with these people, you mean?'

The penny dropped. John looked across the table to First Agent.

'No. I didn't mention it to anyone else at all. Just Mrs Hudson.'

There was a noisy silence in the room.

'It's standard practise to monitor the conversations of the people in these houses,' Harry said eventually. 'I was unaware that this had continued during your stay. I'll have the microphones turned off immediately.'

'You'll have them removed,' Sherlock said.

'And the cameras,' John added.

'Of course.'

Sherlock's lip twisted into something midway between a smile and a snarl. 'If there's anybody here who believes my brother is safe and well, if there's _anyone_ who isn't working towards his immediate and safe return, I would like them taken off this operation. They're no use to me.'

'Of course, Mr Holmes,' Harry said.

'Let me see the floorplan.'

Harry nodded and pulled out two large rolls of paper, which he unrolled on the table, and the four men leaned over them, using folders and their hands to keep them flat. Mycroft's office building was long and thin, and his office was right at the very end of it. Sherlock pulled John's arm slightly to draw him to the relevant section.

'Seem familiar?' he asked quietly.

'Er, well, yeah.'

The building that Mycroft's office was based in was on a long road with a slant to it. Consequently, the West side of the building had half a floor more than the East side, and Mycroft's office was set right at the Western end away from the other offices and was literally sandwiched between two floors. There was an entrance to the street below, then a half-flight of stairs to the first half floor, on which there were toilets. More steps up to the first floor proper, another half-flight and a short corridor to Mycroft's office and its antechamber, then another half-flight up to the second floor, and another half-flight up and another set of toilets above Mycroft's office.

'Must have good soundproofing,' John commented.

'You can see the paralegal room here on the second floor,' First Agent commented. 'And along here on the first floor is Mr Appleby's office. You see how it's perfectly reasonable for him to pass by Mycroft's office on his way between the two.'

'I see,' John replied. 'Is there a fire escape at that end of the building?'

'Not on the exterior. The stairwell there serves as the main escape.'

'And the people in the offices at this end, you say they don't use that entrance that's right there?'

'Not generally, sir. The front of the building is quite convenient for St. James' Park tube station, which is approximately here on this side of the building.' He placed a finger on the table. 'The rear of the building, faces a one-way cul-de-sac. There isn't even a cycle park there. There were plans, but they were never built.'

'I'm willing to bet my brother had a hand in that,' Sherlock commented.

'Yes, sir.' First Agent seemed to be warming to his subject, and consequently some of the cold aspect of his personality started to thaw. 'So you see, this entrance was only used by your brother on a day-to-day basis. There is a security guard there, and a camera, of which we have the videos. On Wednesday morning, Mr Holmes went into the entrance here, walked up the stairs to his office here. He stayed there all morning, and then left at about 11:46, where he was seen by his personal secretary in her office here, then Mr Appleby in the corridor just here, and we have a camera shot of the two discussing something, and finally he returned to his office at 12:02, which is again on camera. He was not seen again. His secretary, Ms Gardener went in to give him his afternoon mail at 13:42, and was surprised that he wasn't in his office. She assumed he'd gone for some lunch and that she hadn't been in her office at the time, but he doesn't appear on the camera here in the corridor, or the one in the foyer. She waited for his return, but he didn't come back. At 2:25, when he was nearly half an hour late for an appointment, she raised the alarm, which is when we set of to Baker Street.'

'I take it there was no sign of a struggle?' John asked, surprised that the question hadn't occurred to him before.

'There wasn't a sign of anything, sir,' First Agent replied. 'If it weren't for the cameras and the rare sightings Mr Holmes in the building by other people, there would be no indication that he'd ever been there.'

'The problem is,' Harry said, 'none of the other agents went missing after a struggle either. They all just vanished.'

Sherlock stood up straight, his eyes dancing with the mystery. He smiled at First Agent.

'Right. I'll watch your video now.'

He marched to the end of the room with John following him feeling a little in disgrace. He wanted to take Sherlock's hand to tap out an apology, but he feared he'd be seen, and Sherlock put both hands to the keyboard anyway.

Sherlock didn't look at much on-line, restricting himself to scanning through national and local newspapers and checking the weather forecast, and then he set to work running through the security videos. John sat quietly beside him.

The videos had been sorted in order of importance, but Sherlock ignored this and started at the oldest one, which was from Monday morning. There was little to see from the video of the front desk and security station. The guard stood quietly and calmly, occasionally being relieved by a colleague. Sherlock sighed and set the speed for double, then four times, then sixteen times.

'Go steady,' John murmured.

Sherlock didn't take his eyes of the screen, watching the security guard shuffle and scratch in fast forward.

He slowed the tape again several times. The first was to watch Mycroft arrive at work, and then leave again on Monday evening. Both times he responded to a greeting from the guard. He arrived again on Tuesday morning, left again for lunch, returned again, and then worked very late. He didn't leave again until nearly midnight, nodding a goodbye to the night guard.

On Wednesday he arrived at work by eight. Sherlock scrolled and watched this section of tape several times. John thought that Mycroft had acted perfectly normally, and he couldn't work out what Sherlock had seen, until he realised that Mycroft hadn't acknowledged the guard in any way. The guard too, stared out into space, not registering or looking up when Mycroft made his entrance. John glanced at Sherlock and noted there was a faint frown on Sherlock's face.

Sherlock didn't say anything about this. Eventually he moved on. That was the last appearance of Mycroft on the video from the entrance. Sherlock started on the video from the hallway not far from Mycroft's office. It was more difficult now as the area was slightly busier, and Sherlock slowed the speed down to a mere times four, slowing it further for each of the interruptions of people in the corridor. At one point he grimaced and held his hand gently to his stomach.

'You all right?' John murmured without intending to.

'I'd quite like some cold water.'

John was so surprised he initially forgot to move. 'Sorry, sure, I'll go and get some.'

He stood up, but Harry got up quickly too. 'Is there anything you need?'

'Water, please,' John said.

'I'd also like some gum,' Sherlock added, not looking away from the screen. 'If there isn't any at the house, send out for some.'

'Of course.' Harry nodded and disappeared.

John sat back down next to Sherlock, who continued watching the video, though now he sighed from time to time and shifted uncomfortably.

'We can take a break,' John said.

'Later.'

Sherlock watched. Harry returned with water and ice, which Sherlock gulped quickly down. They continued to watch the video, noting people who passed by along the staircase and short corridor outside Mycroft's office. Mycroft himself was rarely seen, only walking to and from his personal exit and once where he was accompanying someone to the main exit late on Tuesday afternoon. On his penultimate appearance, he had fallen into step with someone John guessed to be Mr Appleby. Everything about Appleby's body language suggested obsequious interest. The last time, he walked back along the corridor alone. John was surprised to see him glance up once, straight at the camera in the hallway. It made him shudder slightly. He realised he hadn't been particularly fair to Mycroft, and the gentle thought crept over him that he hoped he was safe and well somewhere.

Sherlock watched to the end, not returning to this stolen glance, and he finally returned to the video from late Tuesday afternoon and rewatched the section where Mycroft walked along the corridor with a man John vaguely recognised but couldn't quite place. Sherlock had watched this section twice during his initial viewing, and he paused the video now with a clear shot of the man's face.

'Who's this man?'

First Agent approached them too. 'Ah yes, we had noticed him too, sir. As you can see, he's wearing a visitor's pass, and we believe he came out of Mr Holmes' office with him.'

'Can he not be identified from the visitor's book?' John asked.

'The name he gave is Richard Sharp, and the company Investigo Consulting, but there's no such company listed. The driver's licence he produced for identification was false.'

'So a man with false ID can just swan around government buildings, can he?' John asked.

'Mr Holmes vouched for him,' Harry replied. 'It's not unusual for him to meet with agencies where anonymity is required, and we trust his judgement entirely.'

John looked at the stilled video on the screen, at the faces of Mycroft who was actually smiling at this time, and the tall, dark haired man beside him. He wished he could place him.

'Gentlemen, it's crucial that the identity of that man is discovered,' Sherlock said.

'We're working as quickly as we can…' First Agent started.

Sherlock cut him off. 'It might aid you to know that man's currently in the mortuary at St Bart's hospital. He was found dead yesterday, just before my brother went missing. Now if you'll excuse me, I rather need some air.'


	9. Chapter 9

John followed Sherlock quickly up the stairs and out onto the street. The detective pretty much burst out of the front door, and when he was in the street he stopped and took several deep breaths.

'Jesus, are you OK?' John asked.

'Fine,' Sherlock snapped, peevishly. He took another long breath, and John put a gentle hand to his shoulder, but Sherlock shook it off. 'It's too hot.'

They walked slowly along the road. John had taken Sherlock's hand, hoping that there'd be some message for him, but Sherlock just held it and glowered.

'I'm sorry I mentioned about the thing,' John said quietly. 'It honestly hadn't occurred to me not to.'

'Oh that's fine. If it's forced them to remove the cameras, some good will have come from it.'

There was no time to say anything else as the door of number 5 was once again opened for them. It took John a few moments to realise that this was because their guard had been moved to the inside of the house. He didn't recognise this one.

'Oh, you're back then,' Mrs Hudson chirped when they came in. 'Do you want lunch?'

'No,' Sherlock snapped. He sank down into an armchair. 'Can I have another one of those wafers?'

'No, you can't,' John replied. 'Firstly because I told you yesterday you could only have one a month, and secondly because this isn't a migraine; it's a headache. You can sit still and quiet and have some paracetamol.'

'Another headache?' Mrs Hudson said. 'Oh, Sherlock.'

'That's not making it better,' Sherlock growled. 'It's making it worse.'

'Someone came in to take all the cameras out,' Mrs Hudson said, following John to the kitchen. 'That's good, isn't it?'

'That is good.' John looked in the freezer to find ice-blocks and made the happy discovery of some ice-lollies. He took one out and threw it to Sherlock.

'Do you think he'll eat some soup for lunch?' Mrs Hudson asked John.

'He won't!' Sherlock shouted through. He started eagerly unwrapping the ice-lolly.

'Oh, someone brought some gum for you, Sherlock,' Mrs Hudson said.

'Give it to John.'

'I don't want any.'

Sherlock glared at him. John walked back through to him with and put a hand to his forehead.

'Take your jacket off. You don't need to be fully dressed in here, and it's scorching. Shoes and socks off too.'

Sherlock grunted, but he did slouch out of his jacket. John went to get him some pills, and he delivered them along with some water. Sherlock was not appeased, and his shoes remained resolutely on his feet.

'Could you at least make an effort to stay well?' John asked. 'Take off your shoies and have just half a cup full of soup. No more than that. If you've lined your stomach with that, you can have ibuprofen if you need it later.'

Sherlock sulked. John and Mrs Hudson made their own lunch and sat at the table to eat, chatting quietly about this and that. Sherlock sniffed and huffed, but he did drink the soup, and afterwards he got up to investigate the fridge.

'Can I have a sandwich?' he asked the room in general.

'Bread's in the breadbox,' John replied. 'I'm pretty sure you can find the knives.'

Sherlock looked at him. 'But I'm not well!'

John covered Mrs Hudson's hand with his to prevent her from getting up. 'I think you're fine now. Make yourself a sandwich and come and eat with us.'

Clearly a protest was considered too much effort, so Sherlock made his own lunch. He joined them at the table.

'What next?' John asked.

'Hopefully we'll get the first results of the autopsy and some ideas as to the identity of Mycroft's new friend. I can't do much from here though. I'm beginning to wish I hadn't come.'

'I did say,' John replied. 'While we're on the subject of me being right, I told you to go steady with that damned video.'

'I'll discuss the possibility of going down to Mycroft's office with someone later,' Sherlock said. 'If they're that big on keeping me alive, they can come too.'

'Fair enough.'

'You have another job for this afternoon though.'

'What's that?'

John's afternoon job turned out to be following Sherlock around chewing sticks of gum, which Sherlock then inserted into tiny holes, no bigger than the width of a matchstick, around the house. They found one in the kitchen, two in the living room, two in the master bedroom, which was indeed the one Sherlock had hurried into the previous day, and even one in the little bathroom.

'They're going to be royally pissed off when they see what you've done,' John commented as they sat in their bedroom afterwards.

'Oh, I'm sure they already know,' Sherlock replied. 'The beauty of it is that they can't turn up and ask me to stop without giving away the fact that they're still listening. I was surprised about the slip this morning.'

'So do you think we can talk in private now?'

Sherlock shrugged. 'I hope so. I would like to be occasionally intimate with my boyfriend without the bloody secret service listening in.' He tapped out the message _be careful_ on the back of John's hand. 'Well, no more so than usual, anyway' He raised an eyebrow at John. 'Code three?' he tentatively suggested.

Sherlock didn't have 'come to bed' eyes, John had decided long ago. He just had 'eyes'. He'd just look at John, and John would feel his heart leap, and he'd start thinking very improper thoughts, and he'd happily go and take whatever was on offer. Of course, this method wasn't fool proof. Once, after a particularly sudden yet enjoyable love-making session, Sherlock had rested against John's chest and commented that while he wasn't complaining, he was just rather hoping for a cup of tea. It was even harder when they were on a case. Sherlock would so often look at him with gleaming, eager eyes, and on several occasions John had leapt in with wild abandon, and Sherlock had backed off, confused, surprised and then annoyed. John had learned from this, and for their recent cases, he'd avoided any kind of close contact at all, just in case. This was why Sherlock had stripped down to virtually naked in the cleaning supply cupboard in the old school before John worked out that he was in need of some urgent relief. It was for this reason that Code 3 had been developed. Sherlock had commented that he could just go ahead and tell John that he wanted immediate sex, but John pointed out that no, he couldn't and besides, sometimes Sherlock's mouth said things that he didn't actually mean, and a code would have to be run through all areas of Sherlock's brain before he committed to it.

John smiled at Sherlock now, and started to feel that he had been forgiven for his earlier slip. 'How's your head?' John asked.

'Fine. Perfect. Never better.'

John got on the bed with Sherlock, his knees either side of the detective's lap. Sherlock gave him a smug half-smile and shuffled slightly to give him more room.

John kissed him. Sherlock kissed back and stroked his two hands up John's t-shirt and scratched him either side of his spine, right down to where his jeans started. John shuddered. Then he registered the faint tap-tapping of Sherlock's finger on his back.

_Why is Harry here?_

John sighed and pulled away.

'Where are you going?' Sherlock demanded.

'What? Nowhere. I'm not going anywhere.' John shuffled up to the other end of the bed and lay back.

'What's the matter?' Sherlock asked.

'Nothing,' John said, and then bitterly; 'I have a headache.'

Sherlock looked sharply away as if he'd been slapped.

'Sorry,' John said. 'I mean; we should probably concentrate on Mycroft really, and the other missing civil servants.'

Sherlock looked at him, frowning. Then slid up the bed until he way lying next to John.

'I can probably do both at the same time,' he suggested.

'Well I like to think that when I'm being fucked, the other person is concentrating solely on me.'

Sherlock frowned again. 'I've done something wrong.'

John tried to think of a way of telling Sherlock without giving them away to anyone listening. He came up blank and sighed. 'No, I'm sorry, it's me. I'm being silly. Come back here.'

They moved together again, and Sherlock kissed John, quietly and tentatively, and his eyes moved over his face, searching for any sign that might tell him whether John was still upset. John sighed and moved back again. Not in a huff this time, just quietly, and he linked his fingers through Sherlock's.

'How long has Mycroft known Harry?' he asked.

'I don't know. I'd never seen or heard of him before we met at the palace.'

'I just wondered if he was an old school friend or something.'

'No, the ages are wrong for that. Mycroft did defer to him though, which is unusual for him. It could be, hard as it is to believe, that he is a friend from somewhere.'

'Huh. So he's just worried about his friend and asked if he could help out or something.'

Sherlock squeezed his hand in warning.

'Possibly. Of course Elizabeth is stupidly fond of the old goat. I would imagine she wanted immediate information about what's happening so sent a contact.' He sighed and lay back. 'You're right.'

'About what?'

'I find it difficult to be aroused by you when I'm thinking about Mycroft.'

John laughed. 'Well, in a lot of ways, I'm pleased about that.'

John tapped against Sherlock's hand _Suspect Harry?_

Sherlock shook his head, and then shrugged. He tapped back. _Everyone is._

'Mrs Hudson is getting to know all our new neighbours,' John said. 'So far, I know that Matthew has two godchildren, but none of his own yet, hasn't found the right woman. Patrick Pollen went to school just around the corner, and has lived in North West London all of his life. O'Brian probably does have a first name, but she chooses not to share it. She was army before she joined the service and has been one or the other since she left school at fifteen. We also have Clarke Stephenson, whose parents are comic book fans, and who has a severe egg allergy. Those are the four who have been stationed on this house so far. She hasn't yet got to work on First Agent, but I'm sure she will before long.'

Sherlock giggled. 'I'm glad she's keeping busy.'

'Yes. Keeps her out of trouble anyway.'

Sherlock laughed again. He tapped on John's hand. _Need to trust someone._

John raised his eyebrows in inquiry, but Sherlock just shrugged again.

He sighed deeply. 'We can't do anything else until we hear back about our John Doe. With that in mind, and if I promise you my head feels so much better, and if I promise to empty it of all other thoughts but John Watson, could we please have sex?'

'I don't know. Maybe.'

'Don't sound too eager, will you.'

John shrugged at him. 'You want me. You'll have to persuade me.'

'Persuade you?'

John folded his arms. 'Beg.'

Sherlock looked utterly affronted, but John held his ground, and quite quickly something deep Sherlock's brain saw the potential of the game.

'John…' he said.

'Yes? Can I help you with something?'

'May I…'

'Yes?'

'May I please kiss you?'

John's eyebrows jerked slightly at the sweet simplicity of Sherlock's brain.

'You may.'

Sherlock kissed him. He was about to climb on him but John broke apart and looked away.

'May I… perhaps, may I… touch you?'

'Where?'

'Where?' Sherlock looked baffled.

John allowed himself a small smile. 'Which part of me were you intending to touch?'

Sherlock glanced quickly across John's body. 'Well, I was thinking I'd start with your torso, and perhaps your hair.'

'So?'

'So… John, please my I touch your torso and perhaps your hair.'

'You may.'

'I'm going to continue kissing you.'

'Are you indeed?'

A look close to frustration shot through Sherlock's face, but John stared coolly at him.

'John, while I touch your torso and hair, I would like to continue kissing you. Please would you let me do that?'

'Yes. That seems a remarkably simple request.'

Sherlock straddled John instantly and grabbed at him while kissing greedily. John carefully resisted doing anything other than lying there. Sherlock squirmed and sucked desperately.

Sherlock broke apart and whispered. 'I want to…'

'Yes?'

'Please, John, please may I…'

'May you what?'

'May I please…'

There was a knock at the door and they both stopped.

'Boys, are you decent in there?' Mrs Hudson called.

Sherlock sunk his head down to John's chest.

'Not really,' John called back.

'It's just the senior agent is downstairs and he'd quite like to talk to you.'

'Can it wait?'

'I think it if could wait, he probably wouldn't be here.'

'We'll be right out, Mrs Hudson. Give us a couple of minutes to get ourselves together.' John grinned at the look of bitter disappointment on Sherlock's face. 'Make that five minutes.'

Sherlock leapt off him and stormed into the bathroom. 'You'd better not forget that!' he snapped.

'Forget what?' He followed Sherlock in.

Sherlock was pulling his shirt off roughly. 'Where we were and what we were doing.' He turned to look at John. 'That was…' he waved an arm at the bed in explanation, then turned and slammed the shower on to cold.

'I'll wait downstairs,' John said. He turned to leave but stopped himself. 'Though I'm willing to bet that they haven't stopped listening to us yet.'

'I hate my brother,' Sherlock snapped. 'I hate him to the very core of his being. When we rescue him…'

'Remind you to kill him. Got it.'

'Twice.'


	10. Chapter 10

John sat quietly downstairs with Mrs Hudson, waiting for Sherlock to reappear. It wasn't long before he turned up in clean clothes and with damp hair. He glared at First Agent.

'Can I help you?'

'I wanted to inform you that the man who visited your brother on Tuesday has been claimed as CIA.'

'How many is that?' Sherlock asked.

First Agent shuffled slightly. 'I'll review the full file with you this afternoon.'

'No, you will send me the file and I'll review it myself.' He sat down on the spare armchair. 'You'll also send a computer that I can use here. Now how many secret agents have gone missing?'

'That we know of, two Australians, one Mexican, One Filipino, three from Russia and seven Americans.'

'Seven?' John exclaimed.

'Yes sir. There are also either eight or nine missing civil servants from China, but their embassy will not verify them as secret services.'

'What about Britain,' Sherlock asked.

'Five that we know of.'

'Including my brother?'

First Agent shuffled. 'No sir. He would make the total six.'

'I see.' Sherlock's eyes gleamed.

John very nearly had to go and take a cold shower himself. He cleared his throat. 'The secret services are getting pretty careless.'

'It's always assumed that we'd lose some though a year, but one or two at the most. To have this many all at one time is extremely unusual.'

'How long has this been going on for?' John asked.

'The first disappearance was approximately twelve weeks ago,' First Agent replied. 'They hit critical mass seven weeks ago, and seven agents went missing on the week commencing 20th May.'

'How many bodies have been recovered?' Sherlock asked.

'Five.'

'Including yesterdays?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Cause of death?'

'Here we've hit a snag. The only body that has been retrieved promptly after death was the CIA man from yesterday. The Americans are refusing to allow the autopsy and want to have the body repatriated immediately.'

'Why can you all play nicely with each other?' John asked.

'Given the situation, Doctor Watson, I think we're doing very well.'

Sherlock gave First Agent a long, cold look. 'Is Harry negotiating?'

'Of course.'

'Then why are you here now, before he's had a chance to resolve the situation?'

'The CIA connection is relevant.'

Silence fell between them. Sherlock continued to watch First Agent with a steely, careful look. First Agent looked back.

'Is there anything else we can provide you with that might assist you in any way?'

'Not at the moment.'

'Good. I shall send you the files for Mr Holmes' various cases shortly.'

'Thank you.'

First Agent gave Sherlock another long look. 'Very good, sir.' He got up to leave.

Sherlock let him get all the way to the door before calling after him.

'I'd need to inspect my brother's offices.'

First agent stopped and frowned. 'Protocol is that you remain here.'

'Yes, I understand that. However, our protocol for this situation doesn't extend beyond the first 24 hours, after which it's always been assumed my brother would be recovered one way or another.' Mrs Hudson hissed quietly to herself, but Sherlock ignored her. 'It's impractical to assume that I'll be imprisoned here for the rest of my life, isn't it?'

'Until we're sure what happened to Mr Holmes…'

'This will get us one step further along the road to finding out what's happened to Mr Holmes. Arrange something, will you?'

'I'll see what can be done, sir.' He left.

'Well, that was interesting,' John said.

Sherlock chuckled quietly though. 'Yes, wasn't it just.'

'Well, you've managed to annoy him quite a lot, if that was your aim.'

'It was just a happy side effect.'

Sherlock stretched his legs out and steepled his fingers together. John watched for a second or two before getting bored and wandering into the kitchen to turn the kettle on. He nodded briefly at Mrs Hudson who had listened from the kitchen, and gave her shoulder an encouraging squeeze. She smiled at him, but still seemed to be desperately concerned. There was nothing he could say just now, so he opened the doors onto the patio fully and stepped outside. Agent O'Brian was on guard outside the back. She didn't look up as John joined her.

'Bloody hot for you to be standing out here for hours on end,' John commented.

'It's fine, sir.'

'Mrs Hudson tells me you were army before this.'

O'Brian's jaw tensed as if she were annoyed with herself for sharing the detail.

'I was with the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers,' John said. This earned a very quick, very quiet glance. 'Well, I say I was, but I was actually HRMC. I was attached to the Fusiliers though from 2004 to 2010. So yeah, in comparison to Falluja, this isn't really too bad. I'm still not sure I'd like to be stood in it for hours at a time though.'

'Didn't make it to Falluja myself,' O'Brian commented.

'No?'

'No, sir, born too late. I was in Kabul for most of 2009. It's a bit cooler there.'

'That's true. I covered Kabul hospital for a bit in 2008 and 9. Most of the time I was further up though.'

'In the mountains?'

'Yes.'

'I liked the mountains.' There was a softer look on her face now as she reminisced.

'Why did you leave?' John asked.

'I was offered this. It sounded interesting.'

'Hah. Instead you end up babysitting an over-privileged genius in a quiet street in London.'

She smiled faintly.

'Anyhow,' John said, 'I came out to offer you a cup of tea.'

There was a faint hesitation.

'They can't expect you to work without at least a drink.'

'If there's a coffee going, sir…'

'I can make coffee. It was nice to meet you, er…' John held out his hand.

She took it. 'O'Brian, sir. Ruth O'Brian.'

'Nice to meet you O'Brian. I'm John Watson.'

'Yes, sir.' She smiled faintly.

'I'll get you that coffee.'

'Sir?'

He stopped and looked at her.

'Why did you leave?'

'The army? I got shot. Rehabilitation took a while longer than they wanted, so they thanked me for my time and waved me goodbye.'

'But you're well now?'

'Now? Yes I'm fine.'

'What's preventing you going back?'

John thought. The question hadn't actually crossed his mind for several years.

'I fell in love,' he said.

She flushed slightly and turned back to resume her silent vigil over the yard.

John delivered tea to Sherlock too. When there was no response, he nudged his leg gently with his foot, and he got a grunted thanks. He couldn't get anything else out of him at all. Half an hour later, a box file arrived along with a computer. Sherlock took them eagerly and spread them out on the dining table.

'Can I help with anything?' John asked.

'No, thank you,' Sherlock replied, rubbing his hands eagerly. 'I was just starting to get bored.'

'OK,' John said. 'Good.'

He retreated to the lounge area where he watched some terrible television with Mrs Hudson. He kept half an eye on the figure at the dining table though.

Some time after that, they were interrupted again by Harry.

'I understand you wish to view your brother's offices,' he said.

'Yes,' Sherlock replied.

'We've discussed the matter and feel that the safest solution would be to take you to Whitehall in the early hours of the morning. There are no overnight meetings scheduled for tonight, so we've arranged a car to be here at 2:00AM. Will that be acceptable?'

'It will,' Sherlock replied.

'Good. There are more boxes for you from Mycroft's office. Would you like them now or at intervals?'

'Bring them all in.'

He didn't turn around to look at Harry. Harry nodded vaguely and left again. Sherlock made that deep, throaty chuckle to himself again but didn't elaborate further. John found himself sinking into a deep fug, from which he only emerged to thank Mrs Hudson for tea and later for dinner. Sherlock didn't bother to eat.

He was still reasonably early when he stood up and stretched widely. He looked at the back of Sherlock's head as it bent over the papers on the table. He was looking at photographs of people, mostly men, mostly in headshots in identity style photographs. There were details with each one stating their names, various aliases height and distinctive marks.

'Found anything interesting?' he asked.

'Not yet.'

'OK. Do you want me to come with you tonight?'

'No, I think it's best if you don't.'

It stung. 'OK then. Well I'm going to bed then.'

He wandered up the stairs but hadn't managed to get as far as the bathroom before Sherlock had followed him in and shut the door behind him. John turned to face him and folded his arms across his chest. Sherlock leaned for a kiss, but John backed away. Sherlock frowned and came towards him again, this time not to kiss John, but to whisper in his ear in a very quiet tone.

'You understand I'm playing along, don't you?'

John hesitated, then nodded. Then he thought better of it and shrugged. 'With who though?' he mouthed.

'I love you,' Sherlock said, in his normal voice.

'Yeah,' John said. 'Well, yeah, I know. I do know.' He took Sherlock's hand and tapped out a message. _I'm sorry I gave your thoughts away._

Sherlock shook his head and kissed John. Then he murmured in his ear again.

'I trust you beyond all other people. We don't know what's happening to Mycroft. I don't want anyone to dispense with him and come after you.'

John rolled his eyes. 'Really?'

'Really.' Sherlock's voice dropped to a murmur. 'Better you're immune to torture.'

John sighed. 'You're a damned fool, Sherlock Holmes,' he said in his normal speaking voice.

Sherlock blinked once in confusion.

'I'm coming with you tonight,' John told him. 'I'm going to get in a couple of hours cat-nap now and set my alarm for 1:00.'

Sherlock nodded. 'Fine.'

'If you're not going to sleep, at least take your dose now.'

'OK.'

John went into the bathroom and set the shower to cool water. He stood under the stream and allowed himself to feel slightly relieved that Sherlock wasn't too upset with him.

There was a call from the bedroom that he couldn't make out.

'What?' he called back, sticking his head out of the shower.

Sherlock came back in with a blister pack of tablets. 'There's only one left.'

'Oh, the new ones are in the white bag at the top of the case. You only need two.'

'Two pills. Got it.' He wandered off again.

When John had finished showering and roughly drying, he went through to the bedroom and was surprised to see Sherlock in the bed already.

'Are you not going to work straight through?' he asked.

'No. You're right; it's far better that I'm rested when we go.'

'OK then.'

'So you can get into bed with me now.'

'Rested, you said.'

Sherlock grinned happily.

'I've told you I need an early night,' John said.

Sherlock continued to grin at him.

'I'm knackered,' John said. 'I think the heat's making me tired or something.'

'Fine. Just get into bed with me. I promise I won't disturb your sleep in any way.'

John got into the bed and kicked the sheet right down.

'It's too hot to do anything anyway,' he complained.

'Indeed it is.'

Sherlock did nothing more than take his hand. John rolled over and was on top of him in seconds.


	11. Chapter 11

John woke up with a piercing little tone running through his head. He cursed and flailed around for his phone, cancelled the alarm and dropped it to the floor.

'No, don't go back to sleep,' Sherlock said. 'We've got to get up and go.'

'Where to?'

'Mycroft's office.'

'OK.'

John closed his eyes. He was naked and on top of the bed sheets with his arm dangling over the side of the bed. He started to snore quietly.

'Get up,' Sherlock said, and he prodded him.

'Whar isit?' John mumbled.

'You don't have to come at all.' Sherlock said. 'You'll be quite safe here, and I'll be back in an hour or two.'

'Nope…' John pulled himself up onto all fours. 'Not going alone.'

'I know I'm not going alone. I'll have at least one agent with me.'

'And me.' John flopped back down onto the bed. Then, with a monumental effort, he pushed himself back up and off the bed. He staggered through to the bathroom where he dowsed his head with cold water in the sink. He went back though to Sherlock.

'Right. I'm ready.'

Sherlock looked him.

'Are you not going to bother with clothes?'

John stared blankly, waiting for his brain to come up with a reasonable suggestion as to what 'clothes' might be.

'I told you I needed some sleep,' he said eventually.

Sherlock smirked. 'I'll go and make you some coffee.'

They had both managed to find a reasonable array of clothing and were ready on the street outside the house by five minutes to one. The night air was very still, and there though it was slightly cooler than the day had been, there was still a close, oppressive quality to it. The moon was at its half point, and it gazed lazily down on the two of them. The guard at their front door had frowned when they left, but he had allowed them to wait outside. John could see the tell-tale signs of snipers in the windows of the houses opposite.

'I wonder,' Sherlock murmured quietly, 'at what point did it start feeling as though we were here for someone's safety other than ours?'

'Well, I can only speak for myself, but it was about five minutes after they closed the door on us.'

'I was slightly preoccupied at that time.'

'Yes.' John looked along at the windows. Possibly, but only possibly on account of the fact that there was nothing else in the street, all the eyes were fixed on the pair of them. 'I do wonder what would happen were we to just walk away.'

'It is an interesting question. On the other hand I'm not sure I'd like to see Mrs Hudson trying to outrun a bullet.'

'Yes.' John nodded slowly. 'I'd just like to point out _again_ that I said not to come.'

Sherlock's mouth curled into a smile. 'True. But this _is_ a nice little mystery, even if Mycroft chose an unusual way of delivering it to us.'

'So we'll stay for now?'

'Let's see what rocked Mycroft so far out of his comfort area. Must be pretty important.'

'Fair enough.' John gazed up and down the street. To an untrained eye, there was nothing that marked it out as unusual in any way. It was just a quiet little London street, like any other.

'Who was on the door?' Sherlock asked.

'Pollen, I believe,' John replied.

Sherlock took his hand and they waited for the car silently. Sherlock tapped out a message on the palm of John's hand. _Who to trust?_

John replied; _Suspects?_

_Harry, First Agent. No lesser agents eliminated so far._

_So everyone._

_Yes. Any thoughts on that number from Mycroft yet?_

_No. Sorry._

_Keep trying._

John heaved a sigh just as a large, black car rounded the corner.

'Oh, I see we're still going for subtlety,' he commented.

'Mycroft's influence asserts itself wherever he passes.'

The car stopped, and First Agent got out to open the rear door for them.

'You'll both be with us, I see,' he said.

'Yes. How interesting that you thought John might not come,' Sherlock replied smoothly.

John climbed into the car behind him. He was surprised to note that Matthew was driving, but on the whole, he decided he was quite happy he was there. There was something about First Agent that he couldn't quite trust. He knew this was irrational. There was no reason for the agents to be friendly and cheery, particularly at the moment with Mycroft missing which must be playing on their consciences to some degree. Plus, they all had to settle for Sherlock at the moment, and he never brought out the sunny side of anybody.

Sherlock took his hand. The tap-tapping was very faint now, almost imperceptible, in fact, but he closed his eyes and concentrated.

_Probably Mic free in bedroom._

This filled John with a considerable amount of joy, but he didn't share this. He just sat still and quiet with his eyes closed, and eventually he drifted back off to sleep.

He was woken not long enough later as Sherlock shook him gently.

'What is it, wha's happening?' he muttered.

'You know you're welcome to wait in the car if you want,' Sherlock said, smiling at him.

'No, I'll come.'

He got out of the car and walked around to where Sherlock was stretching himself widely, as if to properly enjoy the freedom that they were suddenly afforded. As he did so, it occurred to John that perhaps the suggestion that he wait behind was in fact a suggestion that he escaped from the secret services clutches, but he'd missed his chance now. Besides, he reflected as he followed First Agent into the building, if Sherlock thought he'd be allowed out of John's sight, then he had another think coming.

The agent on the desk had clearly been alerted to their visit, and he stood and nodded to First Agent. None of them were required to sign in or empty their pockets though. They just went through the internal door onto the staircase, and up the first flight to the toilet.

'This whole case puts me in mind of Mr Bartlet's cellar,' Sherlock commented.

'How so,' John asked heavily.

Sherlock didn't answer. John shook the sleep from his head and applied himself properly. He followed a step behind Sherlock more briskly than before.

The corridors were all familiar; largely from the security videos he'd spent half the day watching. He vaguely remembered his meeting with Mycroft from several years before though. The carpets seemed new and unfamiliar, and there seemed to be an odd bounce underfoot that he hadn't noticed before, but he kept this reflection to himself and just walked along.

He counted the stairs up, and the ones down to the exit as well as the ones to Mycroft's office. He glanced side to side but couldn't see anything particularly different about the corridor on any of the three floors. He followed Sherlock feeling particularly stupid. Sherlock was paying particular attention to the sites of the security cameras in each of the three corridors. On the half floors above and below Mycroft's room, the cameras were full fish-eye ones, whereas the one on Mycroft's floor was an older one with a standard lens.

'Right, we've seen all we can here,' Sherlock said. 'I must just use the facilities before we examine my brother's room. He darted into the gent's toilets on the floor above Mycroft.

John followed him in.

'You OK?' he asked.

'Fine.' Sherlock made use of a urinal.

Matthew came into the room too and stood looking mildly embarrassed by the situation. He waited as Sherlock washed his hands, and then he held the door for them. Sherlock nodded his thanks and set off down the stairs to Mycroft's office.

The antechamber was very small, little more than a corner with a desk in it. Sherlock nodded at it briefly.

'It'd be hard to miss a fat civil servant passing by,' he muttered before passing through to the office proper. John politely stood aside to let the two agents in after him before he entered the room. It was as dull and stark as John remembered it, however there was something amiss that he now noticed. He studiously set his face to 'neutral' and avoided looking at anything but Sherlock.

The computer had been removed from Mycroft's desk, and, as Sherlock quickly opened and shut drawers, it would seem that any paper contents had been removed too. First Agent made no suggestion that this was a surprise to him. Sherlock groped inside the draws so that he could feel the underside of the drawer above. He came up empty handed. Finally he looked around the room one more time and yawned.

'Thank you. I'm ready to go back to the house now.'

First Agent looked surprised. 'Is there anything here you'd like to share with us, sir?'

'No, not really.' He gave a slight smile in the face of First Agent's frown. 'By which I mean, there is nothing to see here. All evidence of my brother being in the building at any time has indeed been obliterated. I was glad to confirm it for myself though.'

He smiled broadly and gestured towards the door. John was about to follow after them when Sherlock took hold of his arm. John was about to smugly comment about the proximity of the walls in Mycroft's room, but the look in Sherlock's eye stopped him.

'John, my head feels really strange.'

Sherlock spoke with no concern in his voice at all, as though he were simply passing the time of day. John's stomach sank though.

'Code one?' John glanced around. It occurred to him far too late that he hadn't brought a bag at all, not least anything that could help out with this situation. 'Sit down,' he said, pointing at the bare floor.

Sherlock gave him a slight smile. 'No, it's not a code one. It's different. My brain feels… different.'

'How different?'

'It feels as though it's been sucked.'

John stared. 'Your brain feels as though it's been sucked?'

'Yes.'

John raised his eyebrows. 'I have literally no idea what to do with that information.'

Matthew hurried back in through the door. 'Mr Holmes? Are you finished here?'

'I am. Apologies. Come along John.'

John followed Sherlock back outside, and down the stairs to the small security desk. Sherlock waited here for a moment and looked carefully at the camera that was recording everyone that passed by. He turned to the desk agent and smiled.

'Good evening.'

The agent's eyes slid to First Agent who nodded a confirmation to him.

'Good evening, sir.'

'You know my brother, Mr Mycroft Holmes?'

'Yes, sir.'

'How well?'

'My shifts usually start at 9:00PM. Mr Holmes regularly works past that time. Sometimes he arrives before I've left at seven.'

'And you exchange conversation as he comes and goes?'

This earned another quiet glance at First Agent and Matthew. 'No, sir.'

'No?'

'No, sir. Mr Holmes doesn't appreciate conversation, sir. We all know, most of us know, when he passes by he should just be left, sir.'

'Really?'

'Yes, sir. 'Pretend he's invisible,' I was told, sir, so that's what I do. He's never given me any indication that this was wrong. He sends me Christmas cards each year, so I assumed it was all OK.'

'Is there a gift with the card?'

The guard shuffled. 'Yes, sir. He usually puts cash in.'

'Right. Thank you.'

'No problem, sir.'

Sherlock turned to leave.

'Sir?'

Sherlock stopped again and looked at the man.

'I hope you find him safe, sir.'

'Thank you.'

Sherlock swept out the door with Matthew following after him. John and First Agent looked at one another for the briefest of moments before First Agent gestured towards the door, and John had no option but to be followed out. Sherlock was already getting into the car again. John got in beside him and gave him a curious look, but Sherlock shook his head slightly. They pulled onto the main road.

'Why was I not told that there were new agents working on Mycroft's entrance?' Sherlock asked.

'All of our agents are carefully vetted and selected,' First Agent replied.

'Yes. I note you have Mycroft's unpleasant habit of not answering a question. The agent on the door on Monday and Tuesday didn't know Mycroft. How long has be been working on that entrance?'

'Agent Collins has been with the service for several years.'

'Yes. And when was the first occasion that he worked at that particular entrance?'

'He covered some shifts last week and this.'

'Covering what?'

'One of our regular agents has taken leave.'

'Thank you,' Sherlock sat back in his seat again.

They sat in silence as they made their way back to the safe house.


	12. Chapter 12

John found he was wide awake for the journey back across London. Try as he might, that he couldn't make thoughts of Mycroft and walls and secret service agents stay in his head. For him, the most pressing mystery was the one of the sucked brain. He somehow managed to avoid peppering Sherlock with questions until they were back in the bedroom at number five, and Sherlock had sat down on the bed to calmly undo his cuffs. John caught hold of his head though, and tipped it back to look carefully into Sherlock's eyes.

'How are you feeling now?' he asked.

'Fine. Like I say, I feel perfectly fine. Just a little…'

'Sucked?'

'Perhaps it wasn't the best descriptor.'

John smiled. 'Is there any pain?'

'No. No pain at all.'

'No concerning vision? No bells ringing.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'No, and you know this because if there were, I'd have said 'code 1', and we'd have sat about waiting for me to have a fit.'

John released Sherlock's head and stood back. 'You can't give me that sort of statement and not expect me to react.'

'React, fine. Overreact, stop it.'

'Sherlock…'

'Fine!' Sherlock snapped. 'Next time I won't say anything.'

'No, that's not what I'm saying…'

'Look, it feels fine now. There was just a peculiar few minutes in the office, that's all. Come to bed now.'

'I'm not tired.'

Sherlock snorted.

'I'm sorry,' John said, rubbing his face. 'I worry about your brain.'

'Come and worry about my brain in bed.'

John stripped off and got back into the bed. He pulled the sheet over him now and looked at Sherlock who was lying sedately on his back with his hands folded on his chest.

'I'm not sure I'm going to be able to sleep with you looking at me like that,' Sherlock said.

'Mm. I'm not sure I'm going to be able to sleep either way.'

Sherlock chuckled. 'I do hope we find Mycroft soon.'

'Yes, me too.'

'I hate working with the secret services. They're all so slippery.'

'Mm.'

'Doesn't it strike you as interesting that they put a new agent on the door of Mycroft's office right when all their spies were going missing?'

'They've got to cover from somewhere. And First Agent said that he'd been in the service a while.'

'Oh, they'll all have been in the service for a while. There's no such thing as a new spy. Certainly not one who's afforded any level of trust at all. God it's hot.'

'Mm. I can't open the window any wider.'

'No.'

John knelt up on the bed to try the window anyway. It didn't get any wider.

He yawned widely. 'They've changed the carpet.'

'Have they?' Sherlock said.

'Yeah.'

'That's nice.'

'Mm. How's your head now?'

'It's still fine. It always was fine. It just felt a little…'

'Sucked.'

Sherlock took John's hand and gently kissed it. 'I promise you my brain is not going to explode.'

'No. I suppose it could just be a response to the increase of your dose. I mean, we weren't expecting it to go unnoticed.'

'Yes. It could be that. It could be that or one of the seven other things you think it could be.'

Sherlock tapped against John's hand. _Room size._

John sighed and squeezed his hand back.

_He's there._ Sherlock tapped.

_We're here_, John tapped back.

_Yes. Why?_

John shrugged and sighed again. Sherlock kissed him lightly.

'I'm fine,' he murmured. 'Go to sleep.'

oOo

John didn't drop off for several more hours, and he watched Sherlock breath slowly and calmly in his sleep. After that, his night was broken up by strange dreams and jumping at unfamiliar noises in the room and outside. He woke up to find that it was late in the morning, and that Sherlock had woken and gone back to Mycroft's files. He panicked briefly when he found he was in the bed alone, but quickly reasoned that if Sherlock was in any difficulty he'd be more likely to be in bed with him. He got up and showered before wandering downstairs. He nodded at Patrick Pollen who was back at their front door, put a gentle hand against Sherlock's back at the dining table, and made his way through to the kitchen.

'I'll make you coffee, John,' Mrs Hudson said. 'What about breakfast? Do you want a full English again?'

'No, just toast please. I would pay a small ransom for a thunderstorm to clear this sodding air right now.'

'The forecast said it would break on Sunday.'

He frowned. 'What day is it today?'

'Friday, love.'

'God, time's passing slowly.' He shook out his limbs, trying to get the blood to circulate at a decent speed.

'There's a lot going on,' Mrs Hudson said. 'I hope someone has remembered to water my plants. I don't suppose anyone will though. All the food in the fridge will be going off too.'

'Mm.'

John made his tea and carried it through to Sherlock.

'How's your brain?' he asked, sitting down with him.

'Fine. My brain feels perfectly ordinary.'

'Well that's a worry for a start.'

Sherlock gave him a lop-sided grin.

'How are the various cases coming along?' John asked.

'Fine.'

'Have you got anything for me to do? Because Christ I'm bored.'

Sherlock pulled a file out of a stack on the table. 'I need you to note down every sequence of consecutive numbers where there's a difference of three numbers between them.'

'What?'

'Like 3, 7, 11, 15.'

John flicked open the file. It was filled with A4 sheets with lists of numbers separated into two columns. John flicked through the first few pages.

'And this is essential work, is it?'

'It is.' Sherlock tossed him a highlighter.

John got to work.

He hadn't got particularly far when he pushed his chair out from under the table and stretched. Sherlock looked at him with a raised eyebrow.

'What?' John asked. 'This is even more boring than doing nothing.'

'You wanted to help.'

'This is going to need a whole lot more coffee.' He pushed himself up from the table. 'Coffee, Patrick? Or do you take tea? I can't remember.'

'Coffee, sir, if you're offering.'

'I certainly am.'

Mrs Hudson was ahead of him though, and she snapped the kettle on.

'By the way, Patrick,' she said, 'I've remembered the name of that shop. It's Octavio's. I knew it was something Latin like that. Anyhow, if your mother goes in and asks for gold frogging, I'll bet he's got just what she needs for Charlie's soldier costume.'

'Thank you, Mrs Hudson.'

'You're welcome. If she finishes it while we're still here, you will bring a photo, won't you?'

'Of course, Mrs Hudson.'

Sherlock pushed his chair back nosily.

'John, if you can forego your coffee for just a short while, I'm thinking of going for a walk.'

Patrick frowned at this, but didn't comment.

'Don't worry,' Sherlock said. 'I was only thinking of going as far as number nine to give our friends there a lovely surprise visit.'

'I'll come,' John said.

'Sir, for your information, the gardens all connect via the gates.'

'Thank you, Mr Pollen, much obliged. Come along then, John.'

They strolled out into the garden and nodded a good morning to O'Brian who was standing watch there, and passed through the tall gate in the fence on their right. Number seven proved to be a straightforward little house with a similar garden layout to theirs, and looking in through the patio doors they found it was similarly furnished. Matthew was there, sitting in the lounge area, watching the news. The furniture in there wasn't quite as nice, and the garden not quite as prettily presented. Sherlock and John exchanged a glance and carried on through.

The garden to number nine was starkly Spartan, and they quickly passed through it to the patio doors. They slid open smoothly and Sherlock stepped into the kitchen, which brought a cry of surprise from the administrator working at one of the desks in the living room.

'Don't mind us,' Sherlock said smoothly. 'Just passing through.'

She was already reaching for a phone, but Sherlock skipped happily down the stairs to the large conference room. Harry was on just answering his phone with a terse 'yes, I see,' and First Agent was pulling papers into a pile on the tabletop.

'Good afternoon, Gentlemen,' Sherlock said. 'We thought we'd pop round. Being neighbourly and all that.'

Harry recovered first. 'Is there anything you require, Mr Holmes?'

'No, not really. I thought I'd just let you know that D'Moines is currently in Papau New Guinea. I'm not entirely sure how Mycroft missed it.'

There was a pause during which John got the impression that Harry and First Agent were trying not to look at one another.

'Thank you, Mr Holmes. I will pass the information on,' First Agent said. 'Are you any further along to working out Mycroft's whereabouts?'

'Perhaps.'

'Perhaps?'

'I have three different ideas at this time. My first instinct is that he's at the Tower of London.'

'At the Tower?' Harry asked, incredulous.

'Yes, I believe so. Like I say, it's only a current hypothesis. As you know, there was a case relating to me that took place there some years ago. My belief is that members of Moriarty's network have captured Mycroft and have taken him to the tower, largely as a way of taunting me.'

'We'll have it inspected at once!' Harry said.

'Thank you. I wonder if Doctor Watson and I might be allowed to join the expedition?'

'I'm not sure that's wise,' First Agent said. 'You are currently under our protection, and taking you directly to a place where you might be in danger…'

'Yes, Agent Sparks is right,' Harry said, looking slightly disappointed. 'I'll go and make arrangements now.' He left them alone.

'Thank you very much with your help here, Mr Holmes,' First Agent said.

'You're welcome.'

'I understand it must be a difficult time for you.'

'No, not at all. Mycroft and I don't really have that sort of relationship. It's an interesting puzzle and nothing more.'

'Right.'

'Obviously I'll also need to interview the security guard on my brother's door on Wednesday, and the agent from Monday and Tuesday.'

This earned a sharp pause.

'We have interviewed him ourselves,' First Agent said.

'I understand that. I'll now do a decent job of it.'

'You believe them to be instrumental to the plot with the tower?'

Sherlock half closed his eyes. 'I won't be sure until I've interviewed them. However, it seems somewhat obvious that the perpetrator of all of these crimes comes from within your organisation.'

'I thought you said it was likely to be Moriarty's network.'

'Yes. He does like to get around, doesn't he.'

'But he cannot have infiltrated…'

'Can he not?' Sherlock smiled. 'Well, you'd know best, I assume.'

'I'll have both agents brought here as soon as possible.'

''Thank you.'

First Agent gave Sherlock a look that bordered on pure hatred. 'If there's anything else you require, do feel free to ask either one of your agents to contact us.'

'Oh I didn't mind the walk. Thank you so much. You've been most illuminating.'

He turned and marched smartly up the stairs with John following.

They went back out into the garden, and Sherlock started laughing.

'Oh, God bless Mycroft for bringing me this,' he said.

'So you don't want to kill him now then?'

'Oh yes, I'd still like to kill him. I'll thank him first though.'

They went through to number seven and walked straight into Matthew who was standing by the gate. He looked astonished to see them there.

'Is there anything you need, sirs?' he stammered.

'No, nothing at all, thank you, Matthew. We're being very well looked after.'

'Good.' He glanced through to number nine.

'Don't worry,' Sherlock said to him. 'They're pretty certain who is to blame for all of this. You're with us again this evening, are you?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Good. I'm looking forward to that game of chess you promised me.'

'Thank you, sir. I'll see you later.'

They nodded a goodbye, and John and Sherlock walked through to their own garden, which they found suspiciously empty. Mrs Hudson in the kitchen though, washing up with an impressive amount of angry energy.

'What did you do, Sherlock?' she demanded.

'Me? I didn't do anything!'

'Well First Agent just came into the house, removed Patrick and O'Brian, and he seems to be shouting at them out the front!'

Sherlock walked through to look out of the window to where First Agent was turning puce through exertion as he yelled at the two agents.

'To be fair,' Sherlock said, 'they only had the one objective…'

'Sherlock!'

'We did want them on side,' John murmured to him.

'Yes. Out of interest, when you want someone to remain loyal, do you engage in screaming fits or quiet conversation?'

'Fair point.'

'I'm going to make them a cake!' Mrs Hudson said crossly. She started taking equipment out of the cupboards. 'And you're not having any of it.'

John looked out of the window at the sorry scene. In the kitchen, Mrs Hudson turned on the electric whisk, and the noise rang through the flat. Sherlock took the opportunity to murmur to John.

'It's settled it in my mind,' he said.

'First Agent?' John asked.

'Indeed. My next question is whether Harry's involved too, and how many of these other people are. Also proof.'

'I'd quite like to see what was in that paperwork,' John muttered.

'I doubt we'll get the opportunity now.'

'No.'

'It's secondary in comparison to what's on the laptop.'

'Yes.'

'We'll go in.'

'Now?'

'No. They'll be too jumpy right now.'

The whisk stopped, and the moment was gone. Sherlock sank into an armchair, and John sat opposite him.

'Remember that sucking feeling I mentioned?' Sherlock said.

'Yes. It has not yet escaped my memory.'

'I can clarify; imagine your brain is full of metal particles, and you inadvertently walked through a strong magnet. The feeling isn't dissimilar to what you'd imagine. As though all the atoms of the brain were plotting escape.'

'Very graphic, thanks.' John frowned. 'Wait, the reason you're able to describe this is…'

'It's happening again.'


	13. Chapter 13

'Shit,' John said.

Sherlock sighed and shook his head. 'I'm sure it's nothing to worry about.'

'Yeah, Sherlock. Feeling that your brain wants to escape isn't a good feeling when you're epileptic.'

'Have epilepsy,' Sherlock snapped.

'Sorry,' John said instantly.

'It doesn't define me.'

'No.' John chewed on his lips while Sherlock looked sullenly at him. 'I really wish you'd go and lie down somewhere. Just for half an hour.'

'I have epilepsy. I know it's always there, all the time, but I have it; it doesn't have me!'

'I know. I'm sorry.'

'I hate it, John. I hate it, and I hate this reaction in you.'

John got out of his chair and walked on his knees to Sherlock. He put his hands on his thighs and looked up at him. 'I just wish…'

'What?'

'I wish I could make it all go away for you. And I can't. And I'm sorry about that.'

Sherlock held him in his gaze for a few seconds, but then he nodded. 'Adam said it might get better over time.'

'Yes.' John smiled, he bent his head to kiss Sherlock's knees. 'And in the meantime, I'll try to prevent fretting and fussing like an old woman.'

'Yes,' Mrs Hudson agreed, coming in and delivering them tea. 'I feel I'm best suited to any old womening. John's best suited to doctoring, which is all he's trying to do.'

Sherlock smiled slightly at this, and John grinned sheepishly.

'I am sorry,' John said again. He took the tea from Mrs Hudson and turned slightly so he was sitting at Sherlock's feet, using his lap as an armrest. 'Oh!' he said suddenly, turning again. 'Here's an idea; to make it up to you, I'm going to give you a massage.'

'A massage?' Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

'Yes. It might not do anything, but until everybody gets back from the Tower, we're not exactly busy. Will you, please?'

The front door opened and agents Pollen and O'Brian came back in with expressions that contained both shame and stubborn defiance. They glanced at where John was kneeling in front of Sherlock and quickly looked away. John started to stand up, but Sherlock caught his hand.

'Let's go upstairs for a bit,' he said. 'If you want to massage me, then that would be as good a way as any to pass the time.

John breathed out with relief. '_Thank_ you. Mrs Hudson, can I borrow a small cup of olive oil?'

'Of course. I'll get it for you now.'

'Marvellous. You carry the tea, Sherlock.'

A few minutes later he carried a cup of oil up the stairs to the bedroom where he found Sherlock sitting neatly on the edge of the bed.

'How do you want me?' Sherlock asked.

'Let me count the ways.'

'I mean; how best for this?'

John kissed him. 'Strip down to your pants and lie down on the bed on your front.' He put the cup of oil on the bedside table and pulled the curtains closed. Sherlock slowly and steadily got undressed and neatly folded his clothes.

'It's been eight months,' John said softly as he watched him.

'Us you mean?'

'Yes. I mean us.'

Sherlock gave him a half-smile. 'Personally, I'm impressed.'

'Mm. Me too. I was just thinking; I don't think I'll ever get bored of watching you strip.'

'I'm more than happy to oblige whenever, you know.'

John grinned. 'Lie down.'

Sherlock stretched out on the bed, and John looked at him appreciatively.

'Maybe you should take your pants off too,' he suggested.

'Really?'

'Mm. Wouldn't want to get oil on them.'

Sherlock took his pants off and settled down again. He then pushed himself up to move the pillows out of the way and settled again. John gently moved his arms so that they were loose by his side. Then he picked up the oil and poured a little into his cupped hand. He let it run from his palm onto Sherlock's back and watched as the droplets splashed and spattered at either side of his spine. Rivulets of oil started to run across Sherlock's skin.

The first touch was merely to brush the oil so that it was evenly spread and not running freely. It glistened in each miniscule hollow of every perfect pore.

John ran his spread fingertips firmly up either side of Sherlock's spine. It was still more of a rub than a knead, but Sherlock sighed happily. John swept up again, this time pressing more firmly, and he surged up and out into Sherlock's shoulders.

Sherlock responded with a noise that sounded like; 'unghk'.

John smiled and kept going. He swept again, tracing the lines of his muscles and working out a knot he found deep in Sherlock's right shoulder with several swift strokes of his thumb. He swept up again, and then, simply because was enjoying the feeling of that firm, strong back in his hands, he did it again. He pressed down firmly when he got to Sherlock's shoulders, and followed the line of the muscle down into Sherlock's biceps.

Sherlock muttered something into the mattress.

'Sorry, what was that?' John asked.

Sherlock turned his head. 'I said you seem to know your way around.'

'Ah.'

'Have you done this before?'

John sat back. 'Sherlock, think back over all of the facts that you know about me, and find the one that suggests I have a good working knowledge of muscles.'

There was a pause. 'Oh. Yeah.'

Sherlock buried his face in the mattress again.

John tipped a little more of the oil into his palm, and from there he dribbled it onto Sherlock's back. Starting at the base of Sherlock's spine, he started kneading out the muscles from the middle out. He may have taken a few extra times to pay particular attention to the ones close to Sherlock's arse. Then he worked his way up and up, swiftly and firmly, out and out, rolling little circles with his knuckles, back right up to Sherlock's shoulders. He only gave these cursory attention now, but used a little more oil to massage gently but firmly into Sherlock's neck. The detective's hairline started relatively low, and quite quickly John had his fingers in an oily mass of hair. He enjoyed the texture as he pressed up and out, gently soothing the flesh that covered the base of Sherlock's skull.

He moved further up, running his fingers right into the thick dark hair, calming the soft skin of Sherlock's scalp. He was careful here, so as not to pull Sherlock's hair, but those fingertips kept stroking, tender and gentle, until he was relatively certain each individual follicle had been given his loving attention.

Finally he moved back down to Sherlock's neck and shoulders, rubbing and stroking where muscle met muscle until the body on the bed in front of him was as limp and loose as a damp rag.

He sat back, satisfied with his effort, then, as a thank you gift to himself, he leant forward to brush Sherlock's shoulders with small kisses. He worked back up, tasting the salty sweat and oil until he was at the top of Sherlock's neck and his nose was in his hair.

Sherlock snored loudly.

John grinned and sat back from him. He thought of the many delightful opportunities that suddenly arose, but settled for sitting back on the bed with his book. He also drank Sherlock's tea.

Half an hour later, he looked up as the sound of clattering footsteps ran up the stairs, and he was already twitching some bed sheet across Sherlock's bottom when the door burst open and First Agent stormed in with Harry behind him.

'The Tower was empty!' he snarled. 'As I'm relatively sure you knew it would be.'

John wasn't entirely sure what this situation warranted. His preference was to leap up and throw First Agent bodily from the room, but he wasn't entirely sure what Sherlock's intentions were, so he resisted.

Sherlock was already stirring, so John settled for watching as he heavily and clumsily pushed himself up, apparently trying to shake some of the sleep from his head. He ended up kneeling facing John and the headboard.

'Wha'?' He said.

'Er,' John nodded at the men.

Sherlock blinked a bit and shifted himself so he was facing the right direction. At that moment, John felt that the stress, the worry, the damned inconvenience and everything else was almost worth it just for the look on First Agent's face when he was faced with a naked detective, disoriented with sleep, and with his already shaggy mane standing on end and matted with oil. Harry took a whole step backwards, but the look on First Agent's face was _priceless._

He recovered reasonably well. '_Sir_, our people have returned from the Tower, and we can report your brother is _not_ there!'

Sherlock gave him a long, steady stare and said; 'have you checked down the sofa cushions?' and John wondered whether any of them would make it out of the room alive. Certainly he thought his own chest would explode from supressed laughter.

First Agent started towards Sherlock with his fists balled, but Harry quickly put a restraining hand on his arm.

First Agent shook him off. 'I believe this man knows _exactly_ where his brother is!'

Sherlock shook his head quickly. 'My apologies. I've just…' he looked down at the bed, as if confused as to what had happened. 'I've just woken up. Please wait for me downstairs, and I'll be there shortly.'

First Agent shot him a furious look, but he did stand back, and after a second, he turned and marched downstairs.

'I'm sorry for the disturbance,' Harry muttered, and he followed him out.

Sherlock turned to John. 'I blame you entirely for that.'

John couldn't think of an answer. He was too busy seizing Sherlock by that hair in order to kiss him, long and deep. He grabbed Sherlock greedily, and Sherlock was very quickly drawn in. He had his hand up John's t-shirt, and there was every possibility that they'd just stay in that room until the end of time, but Sherlock's working brain kicked in, and he pulled away.

'Later,' he said.

'Yeah. OK,' John said breathlessly. 'Er… Well, you'd better go and shower.'

'Yes.'

Somewhat reluctantly, Sherlock pulled away and off the bed. He staggered through to the bathroom and then there was the sound of the shower running. John stayed in the bedroom and gently stroked his lips.

It was only a few minutes before Sherlock emerged again, shaking the water from his hair. He dressed quickly and quietly, and John followed him downstairs to where the two men were waiting for them. Mrs Hudson pressed a cup of tea into Sherlock's hands.

'I'm sorry you had a wasted trip,' Sherlock said. 'I assure you, all the indications were that one of Moriarty's men is working within the secret service. My brother was a target in his own right, of course, but the joy of attacking me at the same time would be overwhelming for them. The Tower was the most logical place to start.'

'Is there anywhere else?' Harry asked. 'Other notorious cases of yours?' He looked from Sherlock to John.

'If I wanted to really upset you,' John commented, 'I'd lure you back to the rooftop at Barts.'

Sherlock looked at him sharply. First Agent saw.

'Is that a possibility?'

'I doubt it,' Sherlock replied. 'Too open and too busy. Even Mycroft would have the wherewithal to shout for help.'

'If he's alive,' First Agent said. John wasn't sure, but he thought that he said it with slight relish.

Sherlock shrugged. 'You're welcome to look up there, of course, but that wouldn't be my next choice.'

'What would?'

Sherlock looked very calmly at First Agent. 'Give me a few hours,' he said calmly. 'I'll need to look further into it. My immediate suggestion would be Pentonville Prison, but once again, there are reasons why this would be fraught with difficulties. I think it would be better if we preserved our resources for the most realistic option.'

Harry sagged, but he nodded. It took First Agent another second to agree.

'Very well,' he said. 'I wouldn't want to waste our time.'

'What about those security agents?' John asked. 'You said you were going to get them up here for questioning.'

Once again, First Agent looked at John as if he'd very much like to swat him.

'Our attention was elsewhere,' he said. 'We'll arrange for them to be brought here in the morning.'

John checked his watch. 'Fair enough. If you're happy for Mycroft to spend another twelve hours wherever he is, then so be it.'

First Agent sneered, but nodded, and he turned to leave. Harry lingered.

'Mr Holmes, I appreciate that you're doing everything you can,' he said. 'But Mycroft is… well, I mean… He'd be a very great loss to us,' he finished sheepishly. 'A great loss.'

'I understand,' Sherlock said. 'I know that my manner will appear unconventional to you, but I am also desperate for the safe return of my brother. Honestly; it couldn't come soon enough.'

'Of course,' Harry said. 'I look forward to any further suggestions.' He gave a brief bow and left.

As soon as the door closed, John breathed out and turned to Sherlock. Sherlock, however, put him off with just a brief look, and John instantly remembered that Patrick, quiet and unobtrusive, was still in the room. He also couldn't be sure that they'd silenced all the microphones in this room.

'How's your head?' he asked instead.

Sherlock looked slightly confused. 'My head? Oh, that. It seems fine again now.'

'Really?'

'Yes, really.'

'OK then.' There was nothing more John could say to this. Instead he turned to Mrs Hudson.

'Have you any plans for dinner?' he asked.

'There's some salmon. I thought we'd have that with salad and new potatoes.'

'I'll help cook. Leave the great man to try and work out where the ruddy hell Mycroft is.'


	14. Chapter 14

**Hi All. As some of you know, I've been struggling with depression of late. It's not a new thing; it's chronic and severe, so I have a lovely lot of doctors to work with, so don't worry about that. Yesterday the doctor put me on a new drug combination, which has, to be frank, royally fucked my brain. I'm fine as far as the depression goes, and I'm relatively certain it'll be good in the long term, but right now I feel, er... strange. My feeling is that this week will be a write off, and I'm not going to be able to respond in a reasonable fashion to reviews. But I don't want to leave you waiting for the story. So I'm going to publish the lot now, and please accept my profuse apologies for any silence that might issue from here for couple of weeks. I will absolutely respond to all reviews when I'm able to (assuming you're logged in and haven't blocked PMs), but probably not for a good 2-3 weeks.**

**Sorry for the ongoing peculiarness. Pip xxx**

* * *

Sherlock worked quietly at the computer for another hour, only stopping to take occasional bites of his dinner when John's complaining broke through. After an hour he sighed and pushed the computer away from him.

'You OK?' John asked automatically.

'Fine.' He tapped his pencil against the table top. John automatically started trying to work out letters, but it became quickly apparent it was a nervous tick and nothing more. Sherlock took a deep breath, then pushed his chair out from the table and turned to the door, where Matthew had taken over from Patrick for the evening shift.

'Could you please let our friends know I may have more information?' he asked.

Matthew nodded and talked quietly into radio. Sherlock went to sit down on the armchair, and John joined him while Mrs Hudson busied herself with the dinner plates. Sherlock sat on his hands and kept his back very straight.

'Are you sure you're OK?' John asked.

'Yes.' He half closed his eyes and smiled. 'My head is…'

'Hurting?'

'No. It's just being interesting again.'

'Oh.'

'I'm drawing solace from the fact that it's been interesting twice before now, and it hasn't resulted in a seizure.'

'That's true, I suppose.'

'Ah, here we are.' He stood up as First Agent and Harry came into the room. 'Thank you for coming.'

'You have news for us?' First Agent said.

'Yes,' Sherlock gestured to the sofa, and he sat back down. 'I think… I _fear_ in my arrogance and concern, I was led astray earlier today. I wanted to see a connection to me. I've now abandoned that avenue, and started from scratch, looking at the five agents whose bodies have been recovered, and the work that they were doing at that time. In each of the cases, there seems to have been a connection between projects that were important to them, and the place of their discovery or execution. My Rachenkov, for example, was working closely with power distribution companies in Kyrgyzstan, and he was found in a disused nuclear plant. Ms Wing was found in the cellar of a disused prison having spent nine months looking into prison reform. I am now given to wonder if Mycorft was working openly on any specific project.'

Harry and First Agent glanced at each other.

'Recently, he had been mostly occupied with the other missing agents.' Harry said.

'Yes, but he will have had a cover file. What was that?'

He was looking into the case for changing our fishing quotas.'

'Right,' Sherlock nodded slowly.

'The UK has a lot of coastline, Mr Holmes,' First Agent said.

'Yes. But I would imagine Mycroft is rather closer to home. There's still a fish market at Billingsgate, is there not?'

There were vague nods.

'I'd suggest you start there.' Sherlock checked his watch. 'You will have missed the business end of the day by a long time, but that's all to the better.'

'We'll go there now,' Harry said.

'Perhaps, if I might be so bold,' First Agent said, 'we can ask Doctor Watson to come with us.'

John sat up straighter. 'Me? Why?'

'You know Mr Holmes quite well…'

'No I don't.'

'You're an exceptional marksman,' First Agent went on smoothly. 'Our numbers here are small, and it would be extremely valuable having an extra person with your skills on our team.'

John was about to answer, but Sherlock cut in.

'Unfortunately, I'll need Doctor Watson here with me.'

First Agent looked shrewdly at him. 'Is it possible your priority isn't to find your brother, Mr Holmes?'

'Under normal circumstances I'd let John go in an instant. However, as you might have noticed, I've been quite unwell of late. I need John here with me.'

'Our agents all have first aid training…'

'But of course Doctor Watson should stay here with you,' Harry said. 'Our men have been working closely together for some time, and I don't doubt that while Doctor Watson would be an asset…'

'I'd also get in the way,' John finished.

Harry looked slightly sheepish, but bowed slightly in confirmation.

'It's fine. If Sherlock's ill, then I stay with Sherlock,' he said.

'Then that's settled,' Sherlock said. He waited until the men had gone and Matthew had closed the door behind them before he sagged a bit. 'Christ it's hot.'

'Yes, it is. I think you should drink something cool and lie down somewhere dark.'

'I'm fine.'

John muttered a curse under his breath. Mrs Hudson was already hurrying to fetch a blessed ice-lolly for Sherlock. He ate it looking surly.

'Maybe you haven't eaten enough,' John said.

'I thought you weren't going to fuss like an old woman,' Sherlock replied.

'No. I'm sorry. I wasn't.'

Sherlock sighed and looked at him with a remarkable amount of patience. 'How about I agree to lie down for half an hour, if you agree to settle down.'

John nodded. 'OK, I reckon I can do that.'

He led the way upstairs with Sherlock following behind him. When he got to the bedroom, he gestured at the bed.

'Do I have to?' Sherlock asked with distaste.

John looked at the bed and he could actually see his point. The sheets were all crumpled and spotted with oil and the pillows were saggy and out of place.

'Just come in and lie down.' He straightened out the pillows and sheets as best he could, and Sherlock did indeed spread out on the bed.

'Do you want me to go and make you some tea?' John asked. 'Or I can get some water. Or another massage.'

'No, I'm fine.' Sherlock sighed deeply. 'Come and sit here with me.'

John sat down on the bed and took Sherlock's hand. Sherlock gestured him in, so John sat back properly with his feet up and his back against the headboard. Sherlock just turned the hand in his for a more comfortable hold, and he stroked it with his thumb.

'I'm sure it is nothing to worry about,' John said.

'No. Yet you're worrying.'

'Yeah.' He stroked Sherlock's head gently.

Sherlock looked up at him.

'John, may I please kiss you?' he said.

'No, you may lie still.'

'Johhhn. Could I _please_ kiss you?'

'No.'

'I really am fine.'

'Good. Then in half an hour you may kiss me.'

Sherlock huffed. 'You know I only said I wasn't well to get the agents off our backs.'

'Lie still, damn you.'

'I could, or I could…' he broke off to wriggle down the bed and he started nuzzling at John's belly. Suddenly he frowned and rolled back onto his back. 'Actually, feeling a touch nauseated.'

'Thanks.'

Sherlock smiled weakly. 'I think maybe I'm just going to lie here on my back for a while.'

'Yeah. Why don't you do just that.'

Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed. John listened to the noises from outside their window. It was remarkably quiet for an inner London street. Occasionally he heard people pass by on their way from somewhere to somewhere else. They walked down the street as if it were any other street in London, not knowing there was a bunker beneath their feet and armed marksmen following their every move with high calibre rifles. He sighed, hoping that nobody did anything silly, like reach for their mobile phone, right at the moment a sniper with an itchy trigger finger was looking at them.

The street was out of the way, one of several running parallel, and the fact that clearly nobody actually lived here and it was too narrow for street parking kept it quieter than it might be otherwise, but John fretted about those people nonetheless. He knew that the chances of an accident were very slim. These people were professional in the extreme. It did bother him though.

'The times when I've lost bladder control,' Sherlock said quietly.

'Sorry, what, love?'

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at him. 'On Wednesday it was suddenly clear that I've lost bladder control before.'

'Oh. Yes.'

'I can think of six other occasions where it's likely to have happened.'

'OK.'

'Were there more than that?'

John shook his head. 'I'm really sorry; I haven't been counting. It's just one of those things that sometimes happens and sometimes doesn't, and we deal with it and move on.'

'You deal with it.'

'It gets dealt with,' John said firmly.

'Mm.' Sherlock closed his eyes again.

'I am sorry,' John said. 'I didn't mean to deliberately keep it from you. Part of me assumed you'd notice.'

'I did.'

'Oh.'

Sherlock sighed deeply. 'I didn't want to look, so I didn't look. I persuaded myself the disinfected patches on the carpets were where I'd vomited…'

'Some of them were.'

'And I allowed the confusion of all my senses straight afterwards to persuade myself it had never happened. I didn't mean to; it just happened.'

'Yeah. Well, on the grand scale of things, I don't think it's that bad.'

'No, maybe not. I wonder if maybe you should leave me.' He said this calmly and quietly as if he were suggesting a nice place where they might like to lunch.

John startled. 'Sorry, what?'

'I've allowed you to take care of all of these things, and it's made it possible for me to look away. I'm beginning to think that you're right.'

'About what? I've never once suggested that I should leave.'

Sherlock smiled faintly. 'You told me it would be harder for me to deny all knowledge. It is. The trouble is this way I'm constantly surprised by things that shouldn't be alarming.'

'Oh, that. Well, yes. I'm not sure that me leaving you is necessary though.'

'You never leave me alone. You take care of everything.'

'Yeah, but I'm pretty sure there's a compromise to be reached. Anyhow, tough luck; I'm not leaving you. You want out; you leave.'

'I clearly can't leave you,' Sherlock said, also calmly.

'Well then.'

John huffed quietly. Not so quietly that Sherlock didn't notice though. He reached across for John's hand.

'I'm sorry.'

'Mm.' John listened to the sound of someone in high heels walking past outside. 'How are you feeling now?'

'Actually, I think I'm OK again. It seems to pass quiet quickly, whatever it is.'

'Well maybe we can dial down some of our concern over it then.'

Sherlock smirked at him. 'I don't think I could. May I kiss you now?'

'If you're sure you don't want to leave me, then you may.'

They kissed, softly and slowly.

Sherlock pulled back first. 'Will you video me?'

'What?'

'Next time I'm having a fit.'

'Oh.' John frowned.

'Closing my mind to it didn't work. I wonder if it would help to know exactly what happens to me. From the outside, I mean.'

'Yes. The thing is, when you're seizing, I'm usually preoccupied with other things.'

'Maybe Mrs Hudson could do it.'

'No.' John shook his head.

Sherlock frowned, but didn't press this. 'Fair enough,' he said. He sighed. 'John, I'd like very much for us to be normal now.'

John frowned too. 'I'm not sure we've ever been normal.'

'No, I know. But now we're even less normal than normal. I'd like… I think what I'd like most of all, is for it to stop feeling as though we're waiting around for me to have a fit.'

John sagged. 'I'm sorry. I have tried.'

'Yes. I'm constantly aware of you trying. I wonder if… and I recognise that this might take some practise, but I wonder if we could have sex that doesn't feel as though you're secretly taking my pulse and letting my blood pressure reduce slightly. I want sex… remember that time after the bath? I want sex like that again.'

John's mouth curled into a smile.

Early on in their relationship, he'd described Sherlock, only in his own mind, as quick and greedy. Sherlock had grasped the principles of sex quite quickly, but he didn't seem to have grasped any of the subtleties. His mind, in so far as it was thinking at all, thought 'doing this until _this_ happens, makes me feel good. Ergo, I should do this regularly.' The idea that John might want something more out of it didn't seem to cross his mind at all.

John was, surprisingly, not upset about this. It just seemed to be a natural extension of Sherlock's natural arrogance that he'd assume that John was equally satisfied. After all, in the beginning John was so in lust with Sherlock that it didn't take an awful lot to make him come splendidly. As the relationship matured and things settled down, John had started to feel that there was a slight disparity going on here. He'd thought about how best to raise this in a non-confrontational, non-complaining fashion. In the end, he hadn't needed to.

Sherlock had come into the bedroom from the bath, dropped his towel to the floor, and John, fully dressed had taken Sherlock right to the very brink, using his dexterous fingers and clever mouth. Then, and he still hadn't been able to work out what possessed him to do this, but when an eruption was imminent, had pinched the top of Sherlock's penis and said sternly 'no'.

Sherlock had stared, part horrified, part terrified, part impressed at John. But he hadn't come. John had covered him with calming kisses, working his way everywhere and back down again, and once more, when Sherlock reached the point of climax, John gave him a stern 'no'.

He'd gone twice more, and twice more held Sherlock off until the detective been lying on the bed in a quivering mess of tears whispering, 'please, please, please, please, _pleeeeease_, John…' and he'd finally said, 'now', and Sherlock had orgasmed so spectacularly he'd bellowed loud enough to be heard by the boys in Speedy's and had knocked everything flying from his bedside table. John had watched, fully dressed, slightly smug, and bulging fit to bursting himself. He found, to his joy, that Sherlock was _remarkably_ compliant afterwards.

Plus, he was given a free Danish with his coffee that morning.

Then had come the bomb and since then John had indeed been slightly preoccupied with testing Sherlock's reactions and taking his pulse, and he wanted to make sure he didn't go too fast or too hard.

He looked at Sherlock's eyes now. His taut, strong body.

'I could ask you very nicely again…' Sherlock suggested.

John smiled. He wasn't even sure where that game had come from. Frustration, largely, he suspected.

'Or you could ask me nicely,' Sherlock said, folding his arms over his chest. 'Maybe I'm not as easy as you like to think.'

John grinned. 'Oh really?'

'Yes.' Sherlock allowed the smallest of smiles to curl around his lips. 'Beg.'

'Sherlock, I would very much like to kiss you. May I please put my tongue into your mouth and use it to stroke your hard pallet until you think you might stop breathing?'

Sherlock grinned. 'You may.'

John did so. After a very good five minutes, he pulled away.

'Sherlock, I'm now going to suck your tongue.' There was a strange look in Sherlock's eyes now, as if he had remembered he ought to be somehow protesting, but he was utterly powerless to do so. John grinned again. 'I'm going to suck your tongue right into my mouth. I'm going to possess it. And if you even dream of protesting…'

'What?' Sherlock asked.

'There will be repercussions.'

John leaned in for the kiss again. Sherlock trembled in his mouth. He waited until Sherlock was on the point of collapse and then withdrew.

'Sherlock…'

'Yes?'

'Close your eyes.'

Sherlock closed them like an obedient hound.

'Lie back,' John guided Sherlock down.

'Now, Sherlock, let me tell you precisely what I'm going to do with you now. I'll tell you graphically and in full at the onset. Because quite quickly, my mouth is going to be ever so busy elsewhere…'

Sherlock grinned and listened. It was quite the filthiest thing he'd ever heard.


	15. Chapter 15

It was close to midnight when Sherlock nudged John awake again.

'What? You all right?' John asked, rubbing at his face.

'Me, yes I'm fine. Spectacular. I think that was better. Well, it was a lot better until you rudely fell asleep.'

'It's hot and I'd just had spectacular sex.' He yawned loudly. 'You want someone who doesn't sleep straight away? You need a different model.'

'I do not. It's been two hours since they left. Are you ready to break into number nine?'

'Er, yeah. Do we have an actual plan about that?'

'No. This is the optimal time though. They won't be much longer, and the guards outside will be starting to relax.'

'Can I shower first?'

'No. You smell extraordinary.'

'OK then.'

John pulled himself up and pulled his trousers and t-shirt on. Sherlock tsked at him.

'What?'

'I'm going to be all distracted that you're not wearing any underwear.'

'Yeah, and I smell like sex. You'll just have to deal with it. Come on.'

They stole quickly downstairs. Matthew was standing at the bottom of the stairs by the front door and he looked up as he saw them coming.

'Is there anything you need, sirs?'

'Has there been any word from the market yet?' Sherlock asked.

'Not yet, sir.'

'God damn it, I want him found now,' Sherlock grumbled. 'And this was an utterly ludicrous week to give up smoking,' he snapped at John. He paced the room several times. 'You didn't even think to bring my patches. Selfish, John! Selfish and stupid!'

'I'm sorry,' John stuttered. 'I was thinking of other stuff.'

'Damn you to hell!'

'I'll just… I don't know.' He turned to Matthew. 'Look, can I at least run down to the shop? There's got to be a newsagent within a couple of streets.'

'I'm sorry, sir…'

'What about another ice-lolly?' John said, darting through to the kitchen.

'You're an imbecile!' Sherlock bellowed.

'Agent Pollen, sir,' Matthew said.

'What about him?' Sherlock said, bearing down on him.

'He smokes. He'll be resting at number seven now, but I'm sure he wouldn't mind lending you a cigarette.'

Sherlock smiled, triumphantly.

'Could you go and ask?'

'I can't leave here, sir.'

Sherlock roared at the ceiling.

'I'll go,' John said quickly. 'I'll be two minutes.'

He nipped straight out of the kitchen door to where O'Brian was standing on guard.

'You're still here?' John asked. 'You've been out here all day!'

'The others have gone off somewhere,' she said.

'Jesus, hard luck. I'm just going to go and borrow one of Patrick's cigarettes. Do you think he'll mind?'

'He's off shift so might be asleep, but no he won't.'

'Ta.'

He walked through the garden, and into next door. The lights in the house were off, but the kitchen door opened smoothly and quietly. He wasn't certain whether there was anyone sleeping inside, so he moved quietly and calmly. He couldn't find cigarettes in a quick, two minute sweep, so he grabbed a pack of raisins from the cupboard and went back through to number five's garden. He could see Sherlock still muttering and pacing, and he stuck his head through the door.

'Bingo!' he called, and he flashed the raisin packet at him.

'_Thank_ you!' Sherlock said, storming towards him. Then they were both outside. Sherlock walked to the corner of the garden where it bordered with number seven. He stood with his back to the window, looking up at the sky and miming the action of lighting a cigarette. John stood next to him, vaguely shielding him from O'Brian's eyes.

'God damnit I miss my daily runs,' John said to nobody particular. He looked up at O'Brian and smiled. 'You know that feeling when they suddenly give you a week off after training four weeks straight? That one where you wonder if your legs are actually going to turn to stone?'

She grinned at him.

He paced up and down and looked at the gate between gardens.

'Time me,' he said to Sherlock.

'Time you what?'

'Gardens end to end. Got to be a hundred metres, with obstacles, so time me, to the end and back.'

'I haven't got a watch.'

'Damn you're dull.'

'I'm not dull. Go at a sedate pace and I'll walk with you for a bit.'

John glanced at O'Brian. 'Do you mind?'

'I'd time you. But walk if you must. It's a god-awful feeling, staying still.'

John grinned his thanks and he and Sherlock walked through to number seven and passed on to number nine. A lamp had been left on inside on the ground floor, and it cast a dim shadowy night over the empty house. The kitchen door here was shut, but in their haste to get out to the market, someone had left the kitchen window ajar. It opened outwards, and John pulled it to its furthest reach, and Sherlock shunted him up to get in. He contemplated unlocking the door for Sherlock, but couldn't tell whether there were alarms, and Sherlock was already following him over the counter anyway. He jumped quietly down and landed like a cat.

They tiptoed down the narrow staircase and held their breath and listened at the entrance of the underground conference room. There was no sound, so they walked quietly in.

Sherlock had been correct about the papers. The stack that First Agent had moved so quickly was nowhere to be seen. His laptop was still there though. John watched as Sherlock opened it and spent a minute with his eyes closed, searching his mind for the password. He was unsuccessful at the first attempt, and his fingers hovered over the keyboard, and he thought again, frowning slightly.

With the second attempt he was in and quickly searching through files and folders. John watched for a minute, but Sherlock didn't find anything that wasn't straight forward and expected. John walked quietly back up the steps and waited in the kitchen.

It was less than ten minutes later when an anguished face appeared at the window and the door was tried.

John stepped forward to open it.

'Matthew!' he said loudly. 'What on earth are you doing here?'

'Me? I wondered where the hell you were! I couldn't find you and I thought you'd been taken!'

'No, we're fine, we were just having a look around.'

Matthew looked at him as if this explanation warranted further explanation.

'Ah, Matthew,' Sherlock said, coming up the stairs. 'You didn't need to look for us; we're perfectly safe here. I doubt we could be safer. I remembered I'd forgotten to take the floorplans of my brother's office from downstairs.' He waved the scroll at Matthew. 'I thought as we were passing…'

'I could have got them for you, sir.'

'But you couldn't leave your post. After seeing O'Neil reprimanded for a lesser error, I didn't like to risk it. There's something peculiar about my brother's office, you see, and I just can't place it…' He started to stretch the plans out on the worktop.

'Can we please look at home?' John said, using his best whine. 'It's been all bloody day, 'now I need to use the computer, now I need a cigarette, now I want a walk…' for crying out loud, Sherlock, can we not just go home to bed? You can look at them there.'

Sherlock looked chastened, and he rolled up the scroll again. 'Fair enough. My apologies for bringing you out of your way, Matthew.'

'Yeah. Let's get back now, sir.'

They walked sedately back through to number five. John nodded at O'Brian as he passed her, and he was relatively certain she responded with a wink. He followed Sherlock back into the house and upstairs into their room where Sherlock threw the plans onto the bed.

John raised an eyebrow at him in question.

Sherlock held a finger to his lips, and held a small thumb drive aloft. He put it carefully into his pocket.

'Right, well you examine your plans to your heart's content,' John said. 'I'm going to shower.'

He washed quickly and returned to the room where he found Sherlock lying on the bed, his hands pressed together over his chest.

'How's your head?' he asked.

'Fine.'

'Have you taken this evening's dose yet?

'No, not yet.'

'Do it now then.'

'Fine. Hand them over.'

John grinned. He turned the lamp on to see enough to find the little white box, complete with its note of Sherlock's name and the correct dosage. John popped two of the pills out into the palm of his hand.

'Let's have them then.' Sherlock held out his hand, but John didn't hand them over. 'What's wrong?'

'They're pink,' John said in a dull, flat voice.

'Yes. Very pretty.'

'They should be purple.'

Sherlock wavered. 'They were pink yesterday too. I assumed it was because they're a different dosage. Or maybe they got them from a different pharmacy.'

John looked up into Sherlock's eyes and shook his head slightly. 'Yeah, you're probably right,' he said. He handed them to Sherlock.

'Did you get me some water?' Sherlock asked.

John handed him the glass, and as he did so, Sherlock handed the pink pills back to him. Sherlock drained the water and put the glass back on the table next to John. He smiled brightly and lay back on the bed.

John lay next to him, holding his hand, staring at the ceiling. The facts of their situation played through his head on an endless loop. They were effectively being held hostage here. They had no means of raising help. Mycroft Holmes was missing, possibly captive too, possibly even dead. Sherlock was not medicated.

It took him a while to become aware of the tap tapping of Sherlock's finger against his palm.

_Need to trust an agent now._

_Who?_

There was a long pause while Sherlock thought.

_You choose. _He tapped finally.

John shook his head, but then he started to get up. Sherlock held him back.

_Tomorrow. _Came the message.

John railed. He wanted to explain that forty-eight hours with no medication was too long, plus, there was every possibility something else was coursing through Sherlock's bloodstream and nobody knew what damage that might cause. Sherlock held him steady.

_Tomorrow_, he tapped again.

John settled next to him, rubbing his nose into Sherlock's shoulder, desperately wishing all of this would end now. He wanted Sherlock home, somewhere safe where he could take care of him properly.

'John,' Sherlock said in a low, quiet voice.

'Mm? What's up?'

'Happy Birthday.'

'Oh, God! I'd entirely forgotten.'

'Mm. I'm sorry. So much for getting you the best birthday present in the world.'

'I don't mind.'

'Humph.'

'I don't mind.' He kissed Sherlock's shoulder. 'Really, all I want is to spend time with you. I mean, it hasn't been the best of circumstances, but we've certainly been in each other's company a lot.'

Sherlock gave a half laugh. John kissed him again.

'I love you,' he said.

Sherlock looked startled. 'Yes, I know.' He then shook his head. 'I mean, of course, I love you too.'

John grinned, and he kissed Sherlock deeply now. 'I'm going to get you out of here,' he whispered.

Sherlock didn't answer. The pools of his eyes spoke of nothing but trust.

John kissed him again. 'Are you OK here for ten minutes?'

'Of course.'

John trotted downstairs to the table, and nodded to Matthew. He sat down at the table and pulled a piece of paper and a pen towards him. He wrote small and in print so as not to confuse the reader with his god-awful penmanship, and started to write.

_Sherlock's medication has been switched. We're here against our will. Urgently need Sodium Valporate and aid to escape. JW._

He tore the paper in two, keeping the printed slip, and he folded it very small and looked at it sitting small and innocent in the palm of his hand. He thought of Matthew standing behind him, watching his actions, and thought that if he were to slip it to him now, there was a chance that Sherlock would have the medication within a few hours.

He closed his fingers around the slip of paper.

Matthew who had taken care of Mrs Hudson. Who had been with them at Mycroft's office. Matthew who had put himself between John and Sherlock, and who had intercepted them as they walked through the garden of number seven. Who had followed them to number nine. Matthew who had gone for the pills in the first place.

He closed his eyes and thought. Matthew was here with them now. He wasn't out at the fish-market looking for Mycroft. He was here. Their head jailor.

He didn't know who he was more disappointed in; Matthew, or himself for not realising sooner.

He glanced out at O'Brian. Of those he knew, he thought she was the most likely candidate now. He wondered how much of the trust was based entirely on her being ex-army.

He wondered whether any of the people here were remotely trustworthy.

Mycroft's words ran through his head; 'Naturally not; they all spy on people for money.'

His fist clenched around his slip of paper.

The door burst open, and First Agent stormed in with Harry behind him. John stood up sharply.

'Where the bloody hell is he!' First Agent yelled. 'Where is that odious little man?'

'He's asleep,' John replied calmly.

Harry started to utter soothing words of excuse, but First Agent didn't wait to hear him out. He started towards the staircase. John got there first and he leapt up the first two stairs and stood to face them. First Agent kept coming, and John raised his hands and pushed him hard against both shoulders with his open palms.

The piece of paper fluttered to the ground and came to rest at the bottom of the flight. John studiously avoided looking at it. He stared right into First Agent's eyes.

'You're not going up there,' he said.

He couldn't see, but he could sense Matthew's eyes on the little slip of paper. First Agent had eyes only for John though, full of fury and hatred.

'Mr Sparks…' Harry said calmly. 'I'm sure Mr Holmes helped us to the best of his ability. We'll debrief in the morning.'

He came to take First Agent's arm, and as he did so, the sole of his patent leather shoe covered the tiny square of paper. John looked at him, desperate, pleading with him for something, and at this point he didn't even know what.

'I'm sorry we disturbed your night,' he said to John.

First Agent shook himself free of Harry, but he didn't try to attack again.

'I'll be back here at six o'clock precisely tomorrow morning, ready to debrief. You'd better tell your friend to be ready for me!'

John stood firm and watched while Matthew held the door open for him. Quick and discrete, Harry reached down and retrieved the paper from under his shoe. He didn't look at it or comment. He just left, nodding to Matthew as he did so.


	16. Chapter 16

John sagged.

'Is there anything you need, sir?' Matthew asked.

John looked at him, feeling slightly sick to his stomach. 'No. Thank you though. I'm going to bed now.'

He turned and went back up the stairs. When he got to the upstairs landing, he found both Mrs Hudson and Sherlock standing silently outside their bedroom doors.

'Is everything all right?' Mrs Hudson asked.

'Fine, yes, of course,' John said. 'Everything's fine. Go back to bed.'

He pushed past into his room with Sherlock following him. As soon as the door was closed, he turned and looked at Sherlock.

'I may have just fucked up beyond all reason.'

Sherlock shrugged. 'I fucked up your birthday.'

John smirked. 'No, really. I may have just jeopardised everything.'

They sat side by side on the bed, while John quietly outlined the situation with the note.

'Who were you intending to give it to?' Sherlock asked eventually.

'I don't even know. I'd slowly worked around everyone here and had decided that none of them could be trusted at all. The only person…'

'Mm?'

'The only person who seems to stand up to anything is Harry.'

'I agree. You'll note First Agent tried to separate us, whereas Harry quickly agreed to keep us together. I now have no doubt in my mind that if you'd have gone with them, you'd have met some sort of unfortunate accident.'

'Mm.' Then, after a pause; 'well that's encouraging.'

Sherlock smiled. 'We won't be long now. I can feel it. Your note may have done more good than harm, and it has reached its intended recipient in either case. If we're going to be woken up at six, I'd suggest we try to get a little sleep now.'

'OK.' John couldn't help but feel slightly dismissed. He got into bed anyway and Sherlock settled beside him.

'John?' Sherlock muttered.

'Mm?'

'I really am sorry that I messed up your birthday.'

John smiled. 'It's fine. It's just a day.'

'I still can't help but feel that I could have made this one day particularly special for you. Instead we're here, and that's my fault.'

'Not really. It's fine.'

Sherlock grunted.

'No, really,' John said. 'It's not your fault we're here.' Sherlock looked at him. 'It's Mycroft's.'

'Of course! Remind me…'

'Kill him. Got it.'

The sky following morning was heavy with a murky mist preventing them seeing even across the street to the snipers hidden in the windows opposite. John and Sherlock didn't bother trying. They were dressed ready and waiting, quietly drinking coffee together on the armchairs.

'How's your head?' John asked at one point.

'Fine. No problems at all,' came the reply.

John quietly drank his coffee as if he were waiting for his execution. He thought of this image and wondered how true it was. There was nobody on the door now, and nobody in the garden either. No 'protection' who might witness the snubbing out of two lives with two muffled gunshots.

At six precisely the door open, and First Agent came in with Matthew trailing him.

'Mr Holmes,' he said, 'as I'm sure you are aware, our trip to Billingsgate market proved fruitless.'

'I'm sorry to hear it,' Sherlock said steadily.

'My patience with you is wearing thin.'

'Well, I'm very sorry I haven't been able to help you. We'll go back to Baker Street now if I'm of no further use to you.' He smiled in challenge.

'We need to find your brother,' First Agent replied.

'Yes. You do, don't you.'

First Agent took as step into the room, and John tensed and pulled forward so that he was poised on the edge of his seat.

'I've had enough of your games,' First Agent said.

'Where's Harry?' John asked.

First Agent didn't look at him. 'He's indisposed this morning.'

John felt a chill run through him.

'Mr Holmes,' First Agent said, 'you will tell me where your brother is this instant!'

Sherlock pulled himself to his feet and buttoned his jacket.

'I need to return to my brother's office.'

First Agent wavered for a second, but seemed to decide that this was a reasonable plan. He nodded. 'Agent Briggs, if you would lead the way.'

Matthew opened the door, and First Agent gestured for John to follow him. Sherlock gave him the slightest of nods, and he let the house too, with John and First Agent following. They walked a short distance to a non-descript car, and Matthew opened the rear door for John. Sherlock followed him in, and John glanced to see if there were any sign, any indication at all of what their plan might be. Sherlock sat sharply to attention though, not looking at either side as they pulled out onto the main road. His hands were resting neatly in his lap.

John watched through the window. London was already waking up, and though it was not yet busy, there were people walking by and joggers on the street. He contemplated trying to open the door and rolling out, but he was wary of the speed the car was moving and the fact that it would leave Sherlock entirely alone. Besides, the rear doors were probably safety-locked. He kept his hands in his lap too.

They pulled up outside the rear exit of Mycroft's office. Once again the agent on the door didn't comment on their arrival at all. He simply nodded once at First Agent and Matthew.

_Not to be trusted…_ John thought.

First Agent led the way now, up the three short stairs and then along the corridor to Mycroft's room. The offices were still quiet, though John could sense rather than hear people working away along corridors. If he shouted, someone would probably hear them. But Matthew at least was certainly armed, and First Agent probably had a concealed weapon too, and Sherlock was walking to Mycroft's door so calmly, he didn't take the risk.

First Agent opened the door and made a wide, sweeping gesture for Sherlock to step inside.

Sherlock nodded once, and went in. John stepped in quickly behind him, and they were followed by the two agents.

'Agent Briggs, please close the door,' First Agent said. As this was done, he took a small calibre pistol out of his pocket and pointed it at Sherlock's face.

'The games stop now, Mr Holmes.'

Sherlock merely blinked slowly at him. John glanced around. There was little to help him in this dry, dull office. But there was a desk for cover, a chair which, though heavy, could be used as a weapon. There was a desk lamp, which was more practical, though he'd have to be careful as he took it as it was still plugged in. The window had bars on the outside, but it was singly glazed so could be broken and used as a blade. This was all a split second assessment. He ignored First Agent and looked beyond him to where Matthew was standing with his back to the door. His weapon wasn't yet in his hand, but his hand was resting on it.

Sherlock smiled at First Agent. 'John, that number.'

'What number?'

'The number.' He picked up the small, slim calculator from the desk and handed it to John. 'The cabinet there.'

John looked at the old, metal filing cabinet against the wall of Mycroft's office. He noticed now, and it suddenly seemed glaringly obvious, that there was a small slot on the front, which you might use for a label or similar. In the bottom of this, barely visible, were two thin strips that matched two more on the bottom of the calculated. With slight difficulty, he slipped the calculator into the slot until the two metal strips matched. It turned on, and the green number panel glowed at him.

'Oh,' he said.

'This would be an excellent time for you to maximise your visual memory,' Sherlock said.

John had practised a lot over recent years. Sherlock had started small, using the old party game where he removed a single item from a tray of assorted items. John had impressed himself by working his way up to twenty items and still being able to identify the loss. This had not satisfied Sherlock who had pushed him further and further. Then he'd moved these quizzes outside, and John would randomly be asked 'what colour were the roses on the third bush we passed', or 'what were the numbers of the two boats out on hire?' For a while, John had started to find their outings together slightly trying.

Things changed when Sherlock barked the question; 'Name the seven things on the specials menu', while walking away from a restaurant. Sherlock had been starteled and extremely impressed by John's accuracy here. John had too, until he realised that he had a seemingly endless memory when it came to foodstuffs.

Rather than be disappointed at his apparent one-track mind, John had used this to his advantage. Sherlock had a mind-palace. John had a mind menu. It wasn't foolproof, and he certainly didn't have as accurate or extensive recall as Sherlock, but he found that by filing certain facts to world cuisines, then to individual restaurants, then to items on a menu, he could usually recall a reasonable amount. He'd tested himself on a deck of cards and could easily get up to thirty-four or thirty-five.

The problem was, if he hadn't bothered filing things this way in the first place, the method fell apart and, without that number, Sherlock was as good as dead. The lamp, the chair, the glass in the windows, he wouldn't be able to access any of this faster than a bullet would reach Sherlock's heart.

They were entirely relying on the hope that John's subconscious had somehow transferred the number into food, and that he'd be able to reaccess it correctly here.

'There had better not be any tricks here,' First Agent snarled.

'John knows the risks,' Sherlock answered quietly.

A booby trap. Something that would happen if he were to choose the wrong number.

Reluctant as he was to block out everything in the office just then, he knew it was his only hope of recalling anything at all. He stepped to the cabinet and closed his eyes.

The taste of Chinese food hit the back of his mouth. This wasn't a surprise; Mycroft was usually associated with Chinese food, robably on account of his dinner with Sherlock after finding out he had an older brother. That meal had been filled with anecdotes about Mycroft's antics and John had laughed until he cried. His discussion about his own sibling had been quieter and more sombre.

From somewhere, unbidden, the smell of prawn toast floated through his mind.

4.

He wished he had a way of verifying that. He tried to remember the feel of Sherlock's phone, warm from the day and Sherlock's pocket in his hand. He saw the number 4 on it. It looked reasonable. He ran through a list of other foods and none of them stuck in that possition.

Next, chicken noodle soup. 7. His mind rebelled. Nobody would have soup after toast. Unless they were Sherlock who would regularly choose two starters and not bother with a main course.

He tested the thought in his mind and he started salivating over that bloody soup.

4, 7. Fine.

Next.

His mind drew a blank. No two single digit numbers, and nothing else on the whole of the starters menu looked even vaguely right.

'Doctor Watson…' First Agent said quietly. 'Agent Briggs, if you would be so kind…'

John didn't look behind but he knew there was a gun trained on him now. He put his hand on the lock dial and typed the number 4. There was no sign of any kind to indicate that this was the right number. He pressed 7 and the two numbers stood out on the screen, glaring at him.

Then he was lost. He needed two more numbers and he hadn't the first idea what they could be.

Apart from…

Chicken with black bean sauce.

There it was in his head and in his mouth. He breathed quickly now, aware that he was panicking slightly, concerned about an error, but he had no other choice but to try it.

Number 29. He quietly pressed the numbers 2 and 9. There was nothing. He tried the = key.

There was a clunk and a click, and John breathed out again, feeling the cold chill of relief spilling all over him from the head down.

John was surprised, in an abstract kind of way, when he pulled the drawer handle and the whole cabinet swung steadily forward. He'd expected the top drawer to open to give them a key or a map or something. Instead he'd uncovered a door, perfectly concealed in the wood panelling of Mycroft's office. Just inside, standing with a fine bone-china cup in one hand and a saucer in the other, stood Mycroft Holmes.

'Ah, Sherlock,' he said. 'You took your time about it, didn't you?'


	17. Chapter 17

Mycroft gave John the dry, thin smile that spoke of amusement but not humour.

John breathed out calmly, thought better of 'calmly' and rushed at Mycroft, pushing him back against the wall of his little, secret cupboard. The dainty cup and saucer clattered to the floor and broke. Inside the cupboard was long and wide enough for a narrow bed, neatly made up with precision. There were the discarded wrappings of several meals and a small television which was nattering away quietly to himself. Mycroft stayed completely still and calm with John's hands around his neck.

'John!' Sherlock shouted.

'Damn you, Mycroft Holmes, do you have any idea, _any_ idea at all about what you've put us through?'

Mycroft stayed motionless, though whether it was through fear of overwhelming politeness John couldn't tell.

'I apologise for any inconvenience,' he said.

'Dear God, man!' John shouted.

'John,' Sherlock said again, 'when I said I'd kill him…'

With a monumental effort, John released Mycroft.

'Thank you,' Mycroft said.

'_Thank_ you,' First Agent echoed. He moved his gun from Sherlock's face and pointed it directly at Mycroft. 'Ever so sorry, Mr Holmes, but I'm afraid these things happen.'

The door burst open, and Harry virtually fell into the room.

'Mr Holmes, sir…'

First Agent's face flickered for just a fraction of a second, but it was enough. John turned quickly and with one fluid movement, he pointed the weapon away and up towards the ceiling. The bullet that was discharged wedged in the cornicing.

'That's nineteenth century…' Mycroft muttered.

John gritted his teeth and fought for control of the gun.

There was another gunshot, and John felt the searing pain in his leg and cried out before he registered Matthew. Sherlock had already caught the young agent, and had wrenched his arm back and behind him. He wrenched the gun from Matthew's hand, using the butt to knock him down. He cocked the gun and pointed it at First Agent's head.

First Agent relaxed, and licking his lips, and he relinquished his weapon into John's hand.

'Do I need to kill them?' Sherlock asked John.

'What?'

'Your leg.'

'Oh.' John looked down to where the blood was soaking his trousers. 'Pretty sure it's just a flesh wound. Here, hold this, will you?' he held the gun out to Mycroft who looked down his nose at it. John rolled his eyes. 'Here, Harry. Keep it on Matthew.'

He limped to Mycroft's desk chair and sank into it while Sherlock and Harry organised First Agent and Matthew into kneeling positions against the front of the desk.

'Perhaps if we had something to tie them up?' Harry suggested, sounding hopelessly polite and dainty about the suggestion.

'Is there help coming?' John asked Harry.

'I'm not sure...' He looked lost. 'I don't know who to trust.'

John nodded and pulled the hole in his jeans slightly wider and squinted at the wound. He looked up at Mycroft.

'I assume you've got some ideas,' he said.

'Doesn't it hurt?' Mycroft asked.

'What?' He looked back down to his leg. 'Oh, that. Does a bit. Don't suppose you've got a first aid kit in that little cubby hole of yours?'

'Of course.' Mycroft ducked back through the door for it. He handed it to John. 'Do you need… assistance?' he asked.

John looked at him. He was frowning and looked slightly queasy.

'Not from you.' He opened the box and took out a pair of scissors. 'You could call for actual, sensible help though.'

'What on earth are you going to do with them?' Mycroft asked, boggling at the scissors.

'I'm going to hack my leg off, what the hell do you think,' John said.

'John…' Sherlock said.

'Just a second.' He started to snip away at the material of his jeans. He peered into the hole in his leg until he realised it was making him dizzy, and he couldn't see anything anyway. 'Pass me one of those pads.'

Mycroft passed one to him.

'If you're not busy,' John said quietly, 'it really might be worth calling for some extra assistance.'

'What for? Oh. Yes.'

Sherlock cleared his throat. 'You'll be pleased to know that I solved your case for you.'

'Yes of course,' Mycroft said. 'Though I would have preferred it if you could have done so without cluttering up my office. And the proof? Did you bother with proof?'

Sherlock pulled the thumb drive from his pocket and tossed it noisily onto the desk. 'Happy now?'

'What is it?'

'Only arrangements our friend here has made with colleagues relating to the disappearing agents. Nothing worth your precious time I'm sure.'

'Sherlock do behave,' Mycroft muttered. He turned away and started outlining the situation down his phone to someone called 'Alex'.

'Er, John…' Sherlock said again.

'Give me just a minute.' John ripped open a second dressing and added it to the now sodden pad on his thigh. It was starting to throb horribly and he could feel his head getting lighter, though he wasn't sure how much of this was panic over the blood loss and pain. He glanced up at Sherlock who surprisingly didn't seem too bothered about him as he blinked away at the back of First Agent's head. John took a deep breath to clear his head and started wrapping a bandage over his jeans and both sodden pads.

Matthew shuffled slightly by the desk and Harry pushed the muzzle of the gun more closely to his scalp to still him.

'Please don't move,' he said.

John sniggered slightly. He was relatively certain Harry hadn't recharged the gun and would fumble like a fool if he had to actually try to fire the thing.

'John…' Sherlock said quietly.

'Mm?'

'We have a code one.'

John looked up straight away. 'Shit.' There was no way for John to stand. Sherlock's weapon was already pointing to the floor.

'Grab that!' John yelled at Mycroft.

'What?'

'Help him!'

It was too late. Both of the captives took the opportunity and started to move. Sherlock's gun fell to the floor, and Mycroft just about had the wherewithal to kick it across the room. Sherlock's hands were at his head as First Agent leapt up and pushed past him. He knocked Harry down and charged from the room. Matthew was up too, but Harry fell heavily on him, pinning him to the ground again.

Mycroft started to the door.

'No, see to Sherlock!' John snapped.

'But he'll…'

'Now, Mycroft!'

Mycroft stopped and finally turned to look at where Sherlock was standing pale, blinking and backed against a wall. He stood still.

'What do I do?' He sounded hollow.

'Can you lie down, Sherlock?' John called. Sherlock was already gone. 'Just don't let him hurt himself,' he told Mycroft, and he watched as Sherlock crumpled down to the floor. 'Ten seconds and I'll take over.' He bound his leg faster.

'I'll call an ambulance,' Mycroft said.

'You haven't already done that?' John muttered. He tied off his bandage and limped across the room to where Sherlock was. The tremors had already stopped and he was now standing very still, staring into space. Suddenly his legs buckled under him and he fell slowly down, and John caught him, and fighting the pain that was now searing through his whole body, he lowered him gently to the floor.

The door to the office opened yet again, and John tensed and leaned down over Sherlock.

'Ah, Alex,' Mycroft said, 'we seem to have a situation here. If you could possibly remove that gentleman, please?' There was a kerfuffle and shouting and John refused to look around. 'Agent Sparks is also somewhere about the building. He'll need detaining. Perhaps Agent Williams on the rear exit…'

'Agent Williams wasn't at his post, sir.'

'Indeed, how interesting.'

'I don't mean to cut in,' John shouted, 'but can everybody get the fuck out of this office right now? Go and do this elsewhere. Mycroft, don't forget to take that fucking, pointless memory drive with you.'

John ignored everybody else and kept his hand in Sherlock's hair.

oOo

John's hand stroked gently through Sherlock's hair. His head was resting in John's lap as they sat together on the sofa. Sherlock's legs were bent so that he'd fit there together, but he'd insisted that he didn't want to sit anywhere else.

'Am I hurting your leg?' he asked quietly at one point.

'No, you're fine,' John had replied.

John's computer was open on the coffee table close enough for Sherlock to stop the playback whenever he wanted. He'd held on though with grim determination, gritting his teeth through the most difficult parts.

The seizure he was watching had happened the previous day and was relatively mild. Sherlock had begged and wheedled and insisted that John at least try to record one of them until John had finally agreed. There was a strange interlude in the flat where Sherlock had become strangely excited about the prospect of the next seizure, to the extent that John had started to feel that the detective might not actually have swallowed his medication each evening. When the seizure came, John had held the camera whenever he could, and left it to shoot several minutes of the wall or the floor or the top of Sherlock's head when he'd needed the use of his hands. Sherlock had grown more and more quiet during the playback, and during these moments of audio only, he'd held his breath.

John had sat with him, trying not to get upset himself, stroking his hand through Sherlock's hair.

Eventually the sounds became more normal, and the Sherlock on the video started asking questions that sounded natural and clear.

'That's it then,' John said, forcing his voice to sound cheerful. 'That's all there is to it.'

'Right,' Sherlock said. He closed the laptop. 'That's all.'

John kept stroking through the dark hair. 'Now you know. And that's all I do when you're out. I mostly just try to keep you still and calm.'

'And clear up my vomit.'

'It's a small part of it. I don't mind that part anyway.'

'No.'

Sherlock pulled himself up. His hair was wild where John had been tousling it, and his eyes were red.

'You OK?' John said quietly, gently rubbing the small, wet mark on his trouser leg.

'Fine.'

John took his hand and squeezed it. 'We're trying to get on top of it.'

'Yes.'

'And the good news is that the medication does seem to be making inroads into this, and you always, always come back in the end. That's what I'm hanging on to.'

'Yes.' Sherlock frowned and he opened his mouth as if to ask something, but he seemed to get stuck on what he wanted to ask.

The noise of the front door closing drifted up to them, and the sound of sedate, measured footsteps sounded in the hallway. Sherlock closed down again.

'Morning, Mycroft,' John said cheerfully.

'Good morning, John. How are you?'

'I'm fine, thank you. And you?'

'I'm very well. Have my hampers been arriving satisfactorily?' he asked.

'Yes, thank you,' John said. 'I'm enjoying them very much, though you honestly don't need to send any more.'

'Yes he does,' Sherlock said.

'And how are you, Sherlock?' Mycroft addressed him with an expression of pure sympathy in his eyes.

'I'm fine,' Sherlock glared. 'Go away.'

'Actually, I'm here to talk to John.' He turned and gave John a warm smile. 'John, I came across an article yesterday which made a connection between epilepsy and diet.' Sherlock tensed on the sofa. 'Apparently an oil rich diet can have a good effect on people who suffer from epilepsy, and I wondered if you'd heard of such a thing.'

John shifted. 'Yes, I have heard of the ketogenic diet, Mycroft, what with being a doctor and all.'

'Ah. I see.'

'It's not effective in all cases, and though we haven't ruled it out, it's unlikely to help in this particular instance. Though thank you for bringing it to my attention.'

'You're welcome.'

'Have you find Sparks yet?' Sherlock asked.

Mycroft looked gently at him. 'I'm not sure you're well enough…' He spoke with a high, gentle singsong voice such as the type people used to read nursery rhymes to children.

Sherlock snarled. 'And yet I'm well enough to be dragged around London and imprisoned in an allegedly 'safe' house for three days with no access to my doctor or even with safe medication!'

Mycroft took a sharp breath. 'I assure you…'

'I'm not in the mood for your assurances, thank you!' He stood up and stormed into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

'Sorry, Mycroft, you've caught him at a bad moment,' John said. 'Though you are in everybody's bad books in general to be honest.'

'I thought his condition…'

'Best not to refer to it as a condition.'

'Then how…?'

'It's just a thing that happens sometimes. We want him to be able to work and behave exactly as he usually would any time it's not happening.'

'Hm.' Mycroft got up and went through to Sherlock's room in a move that seemed surprisingly impolite to John until he remembered that Mycroft had probably wandered into Sherlock's bedroom regularly for the past 37 years. He followed him.

'Sherlock,' Mycroft said, 'Sparks is missing entirely at the moment, though we are pleased to have Agent Briggs for interrogation purposes, so our grateful thanks for that. The files that you downloaded are invaluable, though we'd appreciate further help to find the links to those inside the service who are linked to the corruption, and we'd also appreciate help to locate and detain Sparks. Are you interested in helping us further?'

Sherlock grunted.

'Good then. I'll have passes for you and John sent here straight later today, and we look forward to you joining our team for the duration. I'd better get back to my office…' A slight frown appeared. 'I am so disappointed to have lost my little hidey-hole discovered. It was so very useful when certain Royals came to visit.'

'Not The Queen though,' John said, slightly shocked.

'No of course not. Elizabeth really is one of my oldest friends. Incidentally, you'll be pleased to know that Harry has started attending the shooting range behind Horseguards. He sends his best wishes.'

John smiled.

'He's probably in Rome,' Sherlock said suddenly.

'I'm sorry, brother dear.'

'Sparks is probably in Rome. You'd better send tickets for John and me straight away.'

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. 'I'll look forward to hearing what led you to that conclusion later. Goodbye now, Sherlock. I'll look forward to working with you very soon.' He nodded at them, and John stood aside to let him pass.

When John heard the sound of the noisy shoes clattering down the staircase, he sat down on the bed and took Sherlock's hand.

'Are you OK?'

'Yes. It was not what I was expecting. It was messier somehow.'

'Mm.'

'You're right to keep Mrs Hudson away.'

'Actually, I've been thinking about that.' He looked steadily at Sherlock. 'We're still making this into a think that we shouldn't look at and shouldn't touch. In her mind too it's taken on all sorts of epic importance, and while yes, it's a big thing sometimes, it's not going to get any smaller… any more manageable if we don't treat it like normal. For her too.'

'Right.'

'Just think about it, OK?'

'OK.'

John smiled. 'So… Rome?'

'Mm. You've said a few times that you like Rome, and I think the British Government rather owes us at the moment. Don't you?'

John grinned.

* * *

**There you go. Apologies for any delay getting back to people, and also for any mistakes. Again, I would usually have done another couple of read-throughs, but I dont' know when my brain will be back on line. Love to you all. Pip xxx**


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